Consider Yourself
by Elspeth1
Summary: The Xavier Institute has a new resident (from Marvel Canon, not an OC), but is he really X-Men material? Scott and Wolverine aren't sure, and neither is he.
1. You've Got to Pick a Pocket or Two

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DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by Marvel Comics and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

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Posted by: Elspeth (AKA Elspethdixon).

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Author's Notes: This is an X-Men Evolution AU. The show's producers finally saw the light and added Gambit to the series, but I have to confess to being a bit disappointed that they made him an adult. We don't get to see teenage Gambit in all his juvenile delinquent glory. This story is my attempt to correct that. Thank you to Draqonelle, fellow X-Ev fangirl, who helped me come up with ideas.

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Ships: Hints of Rogue/Gambit, hits of Scott/Jean. Kurt/Amanda and Lance/Kitty also mentioned (they aren't all in the first installment, but they're coming).

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Consider Yourself

Part One: You've got to Pick a Pocket or Two.

In this life, one thing counts:

In the bank, large amounts!

I'm afraid these don't grow on trees,

You've got to pick a pocket or two.

It wasn't Kurt's fault that they had been thrown out of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Honestly, it wasn't. Jean had caught the sculpture that he had almost knocked over with her TK and had righted it before anyone outside of their little group had noticed, so it wasn't his clumsiness that had brought the wrath of the museum rent-a-cops down on their heads. Some kid had tried to pick Logan's pocket, and Logan had grabbed him by the wrist and the collar and lifted him up until the toes of his ratty sneakers dangled a good two inches above the floor, growling threats into his face. Which was when the rent-a-cops had come running to see what was going on.

"You lemme go," the kid howled, twisting in Logan's grip like an eel. "I ain't done nothin', me." His sunglasses, knocked to the floor, crunched under Logan's feet, and he let out an even louder howl. "I need dose!"

"Sir, is there a problem here?" The museum guard's walkie-talkie was out and crackling, and his voice was the same mixture of stern and soothing that Principal Kelly used when trying to break up a fight-only politer, of course. It certainly must have looked like a problem: a yelling kid being hoisted into the air by a growling, muscular-looking, obviously angry guy.

"Naw, I can handle it," Logan told him easily, before turning his attention back to his freshly caught prey. "I told you not to touch the paintings, kid. Look with your eyes, not your fingers."

"What paintings? I wasn't touchin' no paintings. Let go!"

"Sir," the guard tried again, "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

So of course, they had to go. And of course, this would have to happen at the exact moment when Kurt was discussing a display case of red and black Greek pottery with Kitty. He was certain he could do the same sort of acrobatics as the youths on the vase, and would have demonstrated if not for the risk of knocking something over. Bobby, Sam, and Evan had been busy snickering over one of the statues. All that laughter just because the man was naked, really, they were so immature. But now they all had to say goodbye to vases and naked statues and gold jewelry, all because some stupid junkie or whatever had to go after Logan's wallet. And they hadn't even gotten to the armor and weapons section yet.

They headed toward the van, Logan dragging the kid, whose strident howls that they were kidnapping him were now being completely ignored by the museum guards, by the scruff of the neck. Kurt thought about asking Logan why he didn't just hand the creep over to the rent-a-cops, or even the real cops, but a glance at the man's snarl convinced him that discretion was the better part of valor. He wasn't about to chance earning another month's worth of polishing the X-Jet.

By the time they reached the parking garage, Logan's prey had given up struggling, settling instead on a decidedly sullen silence. Scott and the rest of the guys met them at the van, probably tipped off to their eviction by Jean.

"This sucks," Rogue said flatly, leaning against the van with arms folded across her chest. "We didn't even get all the way through the costume section, or anywhere near the weapons room. What gives and who the hell is _that_?"

"This"-Logan gave the would-be pickpocket a shake-"is comin' back to the mansion with us. I think the professor's gonna be interested in him."

"He's _what_?" Scott yelped. "Who _is _he? And why are you holding him like that?"

"He tried to pick Logan's pocket," Kitty volunteered. "He got us thrown out. I think we should give him to the cops."

"Is it just me, or is there something weird with his eyes?"

The pickpocket, who had formerly been staring at his shoes as if they were the most fascinating thing in the universe, seemed to flinch. "What 'bout my eyes?" he demanded. "What my eyes got to do wit' anyt'ing? Jus' call de cops and get it over wit' already. You got nothin' on me anyway; I didn' take anyt'ing." Even to Kurt's ears, his voice was heavy with some sort of accent. It almost made it hard to understand him-Kurt's English was fluent, but words got hard to recognize when half the consonants were missing.

"Go ahead, Gumbo," Logan said, punctuating his words with another little shake. "Show 'em your eyes. They're the only thing keeping you out of a police station."

The kid lifted his head slightly, and twin pinpoints of red light shone sullenly from behind a curtain of filthy-looking brownish hair.

"What're you starin' at? Dere's no law 'gainst bein' a mutant yet."

"You're a mutant?" Bobby grinned. "Awesome. You better have a cool power though, after getting us into trouble like that."

"Bobby," Scott snapped, "cut it out. He's not going anywhere with us. We can't just grab kids off the street. We're handing him over to the police, or social services, or something."

"Not until the professor's seen him." Logan gave the kid a push toward the van, slinging him through the open door. 

"Ow," the kid grunted, as his shoulder made impact with the seat. "_Fils d'une putain._"

"I heard that," Logan growled. "Cuss at me again and you _will_ be spendin' the day in a police station. Well"-this to everyone else-"what are you waiting for? Get in the van."

Kurt made a face, but climbed into the van anyway, making sure he got a seat by a window. Unfortunately, this put him right next to the criminal, who ended up sandwiched between him and Evan.

"If you ain't takin' me to de police, where you gonna take me?" the pickpocket demanded, his freaky eyes wide and darting from place to place.

"Hey, chill, man." Evan nudged him with an elbow, then made a face. "You need a bath in a major way. Worse than Tolensky."

"I do not-"

"You do," Rogue interrupted from the back seat. "Not only are you a creep, you smell."

"That's sort of rude."

"Kitty, he got us kicked out of the museum! Even me and Scott and Jubilee, and we weren't even there!"

"Ignore them," Evan advised. "I do. Anyway, like I said, chill. We're all mutants too. Show him, Kurt."

"Don't show him, Kurt," Scott broke in.

Kurt decided to go with Scott on this one. He was all about not showing off his blue furriness unless he had to. Especially not in an enclosed space like the van, where the screams would be so much louder.

"All right, I'll show him, then." Evan held up one arm and let the tips of his spike-bone-whatever things poke through his skin. "I'm Spyke."

"I can see why." The kid poked tentatively at one of the spikes with a fingertip. "Dese poisoned?"

"I wish!"

"Spyke!" 

"Oh, come on, Scott. Like he's gonna tell." Evan made a face. Kurt deliberately turned his back on the pair of them-Evan and the criminal-to face Kitty over the top of his seat. Someone was definitely going to get in trouble here, and for once, it wasn't going to be him.

"So, about that vase…"

"It was all right. Sort of blocky-looking, though. It would have been nice to look at it a little longer," this emphasized heavily, with a pointed glare across Kurt in the general direction of the pickpocket. "Ask him who he is, Kurt."

Obediently, Kurt turned back to the guy. "I'm Kurt. Who are you?"

"Tell me where you're takin' me first. If you're all mutants, you gotta want me for somet'in'." Red eyes narrowed suspiciously at him.

"Logan's gonna take you to the professor," Jubilee volunteered. By this point, everyone in the car—with the exception of Logan, who was driving, and Jean, who was riding shotgun—was focused on the conversation.

"You said dat. Who's dis 'professor?'"

"A mad scientist," Evan announced, with gruesome relish. "He's gonna dissect you and cut up your brain."

"_Quoi_!?" Suspicion became terror. "Lemme out of dis car right now!" The kid's eyes began to glow, and he held his hands up before his face, as if to shield himself from Evan. They were glowing as well. "Nobody's gonna experiment on Remy. I'll blow us up first, me!"

"What the hell are you doing back there?" Logan yelled, at the same time that Jean shouted, "He really means it. Someone stop him! Don't let him touch anything."

No one was going to blow up anything in the van while Kurt was sitting in it. He reached out and snagged the other mutant's wrists, keeping his hands carefully away from the twin flares of cherry-colored light. _Gott _alone knew what they'd do to anyone who touched them. "He was joking. He was joking. Ignore him; he is stupid!"

"You swear?" The kid went still, not struggling, but the glow didn't die.

"Tell him you were joking, Evan. Tell him quick, before he burns the fur off my fingers."

"Fur?" Confusion did what reassurances hadn't, and the light slowly died out, even as Evan began apologizing profusely, explaining that the Professor was a very reputable scientist and had never dissected anyone's brain. Kurt privately felt that if he ever wanted to start, Evan wouldn't be a very good candidate for the first experiment. It was hard to dissect things that didn't exist. He inspected his hands, trying to see if any fur really had been singed off. With his image inducer on, it was difficult to tell.

"No powers from nobody for the rest of the ride," Logan roared from the front of the van. "Scott, you see anybody so much as twitch, take names."

"So, your name is Raimie?" Kurt asked the new mutant. Maybe if they could get him talking, he wouldn't go off again and try to blow up the van.

"No." The kid shook his head, long hair falling into his face. "Re-my." He stressed each syllable heavily. "R-E-M-Y. It's French."

"Are you French?" He didn't sound French. Kurt wasn't very good with American accents, but he thought "Remy" sounded southern. Really southern, with a little extra something that made his consonants even mushier than most southern people Kurt had heard.

"M'from Louisiana," was the not very informative answer.

"Where in Louisiana?" 

"New Orleans." It came out sounding something like 'N'Awlins,' but Kurt got the idea. "What does your Professor want wit' me?"

"He runs a school for mutants," Kurt explained. "He teaches us how to control our powers. It's really great, isn't it guys?"

Kitty, Evan, Bobby, and Sam obediently replied that it was great, but conversation lagged all the way back to the mansion, with the exception of Bobby's ill-fated attempts to ask Remy whether picking pockets was as hard as it sounded, if he could pick locks as well, and if he could, if he'd be willing to teach him how—the answers were, in order "Yes," "yes," and "no."

As the X-Van rolled between the mansion's iron gates, Remy let out a long whistle. "Dis place is huge." He leaned past Kurt toward the window, staring at the vast Victorian-era ediface, the vast green lawn, and the sheer drop to the water behind everything. "None of you said anyt'ing 'bout a mansion."

"That's because you aren't going to be staying in it," Scott told him, as everyone piled out of the van. "The Professor is going to send you back to your parents, or whoever is supposed to be in charge of you."

"No one's in charge of Remy but Remy," he answered quickly, with a flash of a self-confident smirk. It was the first emotion other than fear or sullenness that he had displayed yet, and it made a vast difference in his appearance, transforming the look in those eerie eyes from smoldering threat to a challenging sparkle. It also made him look older, less like the scared sixteen-year-old that he probably was.

"Wonderful," Scott sighed. He reached for Remy's arm to escort him into the mansion—and presumably from thence into Professor X's study—but Wolverine beat him to it.

"Come on, kid." One big hand descended on Remy's shoulder, and Logan steered him through the front doors and down the hall toward the Professor's study, over-riding any attempt at feet-dragging.

"I wonder what the Professor's going to do," Kitty commented, watching the two of them disappear through the office's double doors.

"We could listen," Kurt offered. They had both done that before, numerous times.

"He's probably going to contact social services or something," Scott said, heading off Kurt's slow sidle toward the office doors. 

"I don't know." Jean shook her head thoughtfully. "We might end up with a new teammate."

"God, I hope not." Rogue made a face. "He'd probably be like Boom-Boom, only worse."

^_~

Remy stood up straight and tried very hard not to hunch his shoulders as his captor steered him into the giant office. Tan carpet, beige walls with framed prints, it was all very conservative and scholarly-looking. There was probably a safe behind one of the pictures, most likely the big one opposite the desk.

"Well, Logan, what have you brought me this time?" the man behind the desk asked in a good-humored voice. Remy resisted the impulse to stare at his feet. "The Professor" bore a vague resemblance to Captain Picard from Star Trek, but his eyes seemed to go straight through Remy, peering into his mind and soul to find every sin and misdeed and criminal act. He would have done very well as a judge.

"He tried to pick my pocket in the museum," Logan announced. "Would have gotten away with it, too, if I hadn't smelled him."

Judge Picard gave Remy a disapproving look.

"Why did you try to pick Logan's pocket?" He didn't even bother to ask whether or not Remy had done it.

Some instinct told Remy that lying to this man would be a very bad idea. Those X-ray eyes would see straight through him, down through layers of lies to the truth. However, the truth could always be shaded appropriately. Shaped and formed so as to best appeal to the audience.

This place was supposed to be some sort of school, and the kids at the museum had seemed happy, and thus presumably were not being abused or experimented upon, so this guy was at least semi on-the-level. And anyone who ran a school had to be at least somewhat sympathetic toward children. Which meant it was time for the starved and tortured waif act. He had grown a lot in the past year, though not so much that he couldn't still fit through windows and airshafts when necessary, and it no longer worked quite as well as it once had, but it was worth a try.

"_Parce-que j'ai faim_," he muttered, not meeting Judge Picard's eyes. "Was hungry. Wanted some money, enough to get dinner an' a room for de night. S'cold up here in New York."

He concentrated hard on looking helpless, looking small, opening his eyes wide and wrapping his arms around himself. Just a kid, not a threat, just a poor, hungry kid who needed a warm place to stay. Not at all the sort of person one would have to call the police over.

"Where are your parents?" Oooh, perfect opening. He should have known that question was coming, it was standard fare, after all, but he hadn't wanted to hope too hard.

"Dey dead." Okay, now pick up your end of the script, Judge Picard. Be sympathetic to the poor orphan.

"I see. Your guardian, then."

"Don't have one. Me, I look after myself." Behind and slightly to one side of him, he sensed Logan shifting his weight. Looking back would spoil the effect, but he didn't think the man was buying it. Remember, Remy, don't overplay it. Too much flour spoils the _roux_. "Why you bring me here, _eh_? What do you want wit' me?"

"Don't worry, young man," Judge Picard told him, smiling slightly. "We're not going to harm you. We may even be able to help you."

"I'm listenin'." There was another person in the doorway behind him. Two of them, waiting there silently. Remy lifted his eyes from the smooth expanse of carpet in front of the wooden desk to the man's face, automatically noting pens, envelopes, a sheaf of papers, a paperweight just the right size to be a perfect little bomb, a very interesting silver letter opener… Escape would be difficult, if necessary, with Logan between him and the door, but the man didn't seem to be carrying any weapons. He tried to approximate the right combination of hope, resentment, and fear. Since a good two-thirds of it was real, it wasn't a difficult task.

"I am Dr. Charles Xavier, and this building you find yourself in right now is something of a-school, if you will, a school for mutants like yourself, to teach them how to control and use their powers."

Remy could feel himself stiffen slightly at the word 'mutant,' despite all his effort not to, to present only the appropriate responses. True as the label was, the impulse was to react to it as one would to any other insult, to deny it, or laugh it off, or take offense. It was always an insult, and when it was not, then things usually went even worse for you. Mutants were either something to be despised, or a useful curiosity.

"An' you're just gonna let me into dis school, just like dat? Out of de goodness of your heart?"

"It's not as simple as that, but there is always room here for new students." Those X-Ray eyes bored into him, not unkind, but definitely disconcerting. "To begin with, it would be nice to know your name."

"You're not goin' to call de cops on me?" he asked, stalling. Planting the idea of the police in people's heads was never a good idea, but he had to be sure. Judge Picard nodded. "Remy. Remy LeBeau." 

"And how did you end up here in New York, Remy?" The voice came from behind him, and he was turning to face the speaker before he even thought about it, moving smoothly, weight on the balls of his feet. He caught a flash of something blue moving away out of the corner of one eye, but most of his attention was focused on the black woman who had just spoken. She was tall, extremely attractive, with long white—white?—hair. Her hands were out, palms spread, in a deliberately non-threatening pose. He backed toward the desk anyway, coming close enough that his hip brushed against it. It was the work of a spilt-second to palm the letter opener.

"I don't have anyplace else to go. I," he dropped his eyes and tried to look sincerely ashamed, "I got a record back in Louisiana. Dey t'row me in jail if dey catch me back dere. For stealin', he hastened to add, "no drug stuff."

"So how do we know that you're not gonna steal from us if we let you stay here?" Logan demanded. Remy breathed an internal sigh of relief. They had heard about jail, well, a watered down version of it, and the proposal that he stay here hadn't automatically been tabled. He still hadn't decided whether he wanted to stay, though.

"'Cause I'd be kicked out if I did," he guessed.

"Damn right."

"Logan," Judge Picard said reprovingly. "Remy, we will, of course, have to check this information out, but I see no reason why you cannot stay here at the Institute for tonight. What you do tomorrow is entirely up to you. I will warn you, I cannot in good conscience simply let a teenager go off by himself. Someone will have to be notified about you."

That sounded almost like a threat, though it was uttered entirely without menace. 

"What do I have to do to stay?"

And that was when he got the speech, the clear, impassioned speech about making the world a better place for mutants and humans alike, and defending people from mutants gone bad, and so on, and so forth, for freedom, justice, and the American way. Remy nodded at appropriate intervals, and tried to look deeply interested-not as difficult as he had expected, as the parts about training and fighting sounded like fun-all the while wanting to jump up and down for joy. Anyone who honestly believed in this sort of thing-as Judge Picard obviously did-was both amazingly naïve and idealistic and gullible as hell. In other words, an easy mark.

He was home free.

"So if my story checks out an' you decide to let me stay, I'll get to live here an' go to school an' train wit' my powers an' everyt'ing, an' all I have to do is be part of dis X-Men team? _Vraiment_?"

"Hopefully," the black woman said. "You will need training first, of course, and you will have to learn to work with the others. And to trust us. What is your power? I don't believe anyone has asked you yet."

"He blows stuff up," Logan volunteered. "Least, that's what he threatened to do earlier."

"I charge t'ings," Remy explained. He held up one hand and concentrated, calling up energy as he would if he were going to blow something up, letting it out through his skin. It came easily-the hard part was not releasing the energy when he needed it, but containing it the rest of the time. A corona of light formed around his hand, air molecules humming. "I put de energy into whatever I touch, an' den… boom! An' I can get into places, too. Dat's not power, dough. Just talent."

Judge Picard nodded. "I suppose one might say that you have an… explosive personality. Well, there will be opportunities for us to work with you on this ability soon enough. For now, I would like you to go with Ororo. I think the first thing to do is get you some better clothes, followed by some dinner." He smiled, an unexpectedly disarming expression. "And before you go, Remy, one last thing. I prefer 'Professor X' to 'Judge Picard.' And I would appreciate it if you would return my letter opener once you are finished borrowing it. I may need it later."

"Yes, Professor X, sir." Remy set the letter opener down carefully on the desk and slunk out of the room.

^_~

"The kid telling the truth?" Logan asked the moment the door swung shut behind him.

"Mostly," Professor X answered, returning the letter opener to its proper place on his desk. "He was shading it a bit, but the majority of it was true."

Storm shook her head, pausing in the doorway before she left to follow the kid. "He is trying to play for sympathy, Charles. I have used the big-eyed innocence act often enough myself to recognize it from others."

"He's got you figured for a sap, Chuck."

"Yes, I noticed."

Hank knocked on the doorjamb and entered without waiting to be acknowledged.

"I ran our young pickpocket's name through Cerebro for you, Charles."

"Thank you, Hank." Professor X accepted the handful of print-outs from Hank, leafing through them.

"So that's where you went," Logan said. "You cut out of here real quickly."

"I felt it would be wiser not to let the young man see me just yet. We don't want to scare him away."

Logan snorted. Hank worried far too much about people's perceptions of him. Sometimes, inspiring a little fear in others was a good thing.

"The data I was able to gather from public records contains only a handful of references to a Remy LeBeau," Hank began, gesturing toward the papers the Professor was holding. "There's no date of birth, vaccination record, or any information at all until five years ago, when he was made the legal ward of a Jean-Luc LeBeau and enrolled in St. Sebastian's Catholic School in New Orleans. Two years ago, he was arrested by the NOPD for attempting to commit Grand Theft by using mutant powers. More specifically, he blew open a high security vault. He was tried as an adult and sentenced to five years in prison, but escaped after two months in the company of another mutant, Victor Creed, and apparently disappeared off the face of the earth. Until this afternoon, that is, when he resurfaced in the Metropolitan Museum of Art."

"Sabertooth," Logan growled. He was quickly beginning to regret bringing the kid back to the mansion. Anyone who hung out with that overgrown piece of trash was most definitely bad news. "How many people'd they kill busting out?"

"Three guards were killed in the escape. There weren't many details, but it sounds as if they all died of lacerations and blunt trauma, so it was most likely Sabertooth's work. The destruction of the cell wall, however, was probably our young friend's contribution."

"He eat any of 'em?"

"The police report did not say," Hank answered, without even having to ask which "he" Logan meant. They both knew he was talking about Sabertooth. "Charles," Hank shook his head regretfully, "if he's working with Sabertooth…"

"If he were working for magnet-boy, he wouldn't be lifting people's wallets to buy food." That said, it didn't mean he couldn't be mixed up in something else hazardous to the X-Men's health. And the fact that the state of Louisiana probably had an outstanding arrest warrant on him wasn't exactly a glowing reference either.

"I do not believe that he is affiliated with Magneto," Professor X cut in. "His mind is very difficult to read-he seems to have natural shields of a sort against telepathic probing-but he was not lying when he said that he had no one to turn to and nowhere else to go. I was able to pick up that much. Well, that and his opinion of me."

"You also startled the hell out of him with that 'Judge Picard' line." Logan felt himself grinning. "Pretty decent nickname, actually."

"Try calling me by it, and I will cause you to suddenly develop a passion for the color pink."

Logan was fairly sure he heard Hank stifling a snicker. "Just try it." He wouldn't, of course. The Professor was too ethical for that sort of thing. "So, we gonna let Gumbo stay, or call NOPD and tell them we have their missing safe cracker?"

"Stay, for now." Professor X looked suddenly serious. "We will see how he fits in, and whether he is willing to work with us. Second chances are what the X-Men are for. I just hope that he works out better than Lance did."

^_~

Ororo led Remy up and down a series of hallways and staircases to the door of a large, blue-walled room. Part of his mind filled away all of the twists and turns, memorizing the route automatically. The rest was concentrating on the thought of a shower and food. Especially a shower. _Mon Dieu_, but he hated being filthy.

"Here you go," she said, opening the door and gesturing at the room beyond. She somehow managed to make the slight movement look like part of a dance. Ororo would have made a very good cat burglar. 

Remy stepped inside, surveying the little room. It was painstakingly neat, with long curtains covering the window and one old-fashioned looking bed in the center. A second bed, was pushed against the wall, covered with text books-obviously, the room stayed neat because all stuff was piled on the spare bed.

"You'll be sharing this room with Kurt for tonight," Ororo told him. "I'm going to go and find you some clothes."

Remy considered asking if Kurt knew that he was going to be sharing his room, but decided that now was not the time to be sarcastic. Instead, he asked, "Could you get me a pack of playin' cards, too? _Sil vous plait_?"

"Playing cards?" Ororo looked puzzled.

"_Ouais_, playin' cards. I do card tricks. It helps me relax."

"I'll try to find you a deck. I'm sure we have one somewhere in the mansion. Just wait here until I get back." She left, closing the door quietly behind her.

Remy prowled around the room, finding the security alarm wired into the window frame-easy enough to deactivate-and the box of valuables hidden under the bed. Most of its contents seemed to be letters in German, plus a picture of a pretty black girl and a set of ticket stubs from a school dance. He had just slid the box back into its hiding place and stood up when the door opened, and a blue demon walked in.

"What are you doing?" it asked him, at the same time that he blurted out, "Who are you, an' what are you doin' in Kurt's room?"

"I am Kurt," it snapped, in a familiar sounding voice. "What are _you_ doing in my room?"

"You ain't Kurt. I met Kurt. He ain't blue."

"_Ja_, I am." The demon folded its arms, looking exasperated. "_Wo ist Kurt_. _Was sind Sie_? What have you done with Kurt? Back evil demon. Have I said everything else you wanted to say?"

The German accent clicked then. Remy relaxed, easing out of the combat crouch he had automatically dropped into. He unobtrusively slid the pencil he'd grabbed off the bedside table into his pocket, thankful that he hadn't actually charged it. "_Mon Dieu_. You are Kurt. Sorry. You just… you looked different before."

"It's a hologram. What are you doing in my room?"

"De Professor said I could stay. Sent me off wit' a black _femme_, an' she told me to sleep here. Looks like we gonna be sharin'."

"_Wunderbar_."

"Sorry."

"How long are you staying here?"

Remy shrugged. "Don't know."

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in," Kurt and Remy yelled in tandem. Then they both turned to look at each other. While Remy was staring at Kurt—he had yellow eyes, and a tail, and his hands didn't have the usual number of fingers—the door opened, and Ororo came in.

"I see you two are getting along already," she said brightly. "Here you go, Remy." She handed him an armful of folded clothes, with a deck of bicycle playing cards on top. "Dinner is in an hour." She smiled at both of them, then left again.

"What are those for?" Kurt asked, pointing at the cards.

"I show you later, 'kay?" Remy said. "_Maintenant_, I'm gonna go take a shower and put dese on." But he couldn't help playing with the deck just a little first, shuffling the cards from one hand to the other in one long stream.

"Wow," Kurt whistled. "Could you show me how to do that?"

Remy grinned. It was nice to be appreciated. "I don't know. I don't t'ink you have enough fingers."

Kurt made a face. "I have enough fingers for _me_," he said grumpily. "Go take a shower, dude. I want to use my room for a while."

That didn't seem to require a response, so Remy left. He didn't bother to ask Kurt where the bathroom was before leaving-that way, he had an excuse to check out every room in that part of the house while "looking" for it. He found four other bedrooms (one with dirty laundry everywhere and a skateboard propped against the wall, one with car posters tacked to the walls and some nice looking stereo equipment, one so neat and perfect that it looked like a hotel room, and one with two beds, one covered in stuffed animals, with a Hello Kitty alarm clock next to it, and the other with a black poster of a bat-winged fairy over it, and a teddy bear in a spiked collar on the pillow), an elevator, and something that he strongly suspected was the entrance to a secret passage before he finally opened a door to find a black and white tiled bathroom.

It was obvious that a number of people shared this bathroom-for one thing, there were five different kinds of shampoo. Remy used them all, except for the Herbal Essences one that smelled like Plumeria. He stayed in the shower until the hot water ran out, standing under the spray with his head tipped back, closing his eyes and letting water stream over his face. He imagined that he could feel the past two months washing away along with the grime, days spent cold and hungry, continually looking over his shoulder and checking his back trail, nerves stretched tight with the fear that he was being followed, that he'd turn the next corner and find Scalphunter waiting for him in a dark alley, or Essex standing behind him with a syringe in one hand. "You can be useful, or you can be a test subject." All of it was sluiced away with the water, leaving him clean. 

Life didn't work like that, of course, but sometimes it was nice to pretend.

He needed to cut his hair, he thought, inspecting himself in the mirror afterwards while he borrowed someone's hairdryer. It not only brushed his shoulders, it hung down past his collarbones. Way too long. How had it gotten this long? And when had he gotten so pale? Pale did not look good on Remy. When one is thin to begin with, pale has the effect of making one look like Doc Holliday from _Tombstone_. Like a TB victim, that is, not like Val Kilmer. He and the mirror were usually good friends, but right now they weren't being very friendly. It wasn't just the hair or the absence of the tan he'd once had. With his shades gone, smashed on the floor of the museum, his eyes stood out like blood on snow. Alien and demonic-looking, screaming to the world that he wasn't human, didn't belong. He didn't want to be human, well, most of the time he didn't. Without night vision, without the ability to sense the space around him, without the constant dance and hum of energy to keep him company, the world would be a dark and lonely place. Still, that didn't mean he had to like his eyes. Then he thought of Kurt, his new roommate, and felt vaguely guilty. At least he wasn't blue. Demon eyes were better than a demon's body. Kurt couldn't hide behind a pair of shades.

His stomach growled suddenly, and he remembered Ororo's words about dinner in an hour. It had probably been nearly that long already. Setting the borrowed hairdryer and comb back down on the counter, he cast a disgusted glance at the Sponge Bob Square Pants shirt he'd been given, then left the bathroom carrying it in one hand. Remy LeBeau did not live in a pineapple under the sea, nor did he wear tee shirts with pictures of those who did. He'd borrow one from Kurt.

When he re-entered the room, Kurt was there waiting for him, sitting cross-legged on his bed. He didn't look much happier about Remy's presence than he had earlier, and Remy couldn't really blame him. It was his room, after all. That didn't mean he had to be unfriendly in return, though.

He pulled the deck of cards out of the back pocket of his borrowed khakis and fanned it out. "Pick a card, any card."

Looking highly suspicious, Kurt poked a tentative finger at one of them.

"_Non_, pull it out an' look at it. But don't show it to me."

Kurt obeyed, still looking suspicious. "How do I know that you're not a telepath who can just read it from my mind?"

"'Cause you saw me earlier. I blow t'ings up. An' I do card tricks, an' right now I want you to put your card on top of dese three." Remy cut the three bottom cards off the deck and held them out for Kurt to lay his card on top. When he did, he covered it with the rest of the deck, and placed the whole thing face down on the bedside table. Then, making sure Kurt saw him do it, he slid the bottom card out from under the deck and laid it face down on the table, tipping the deck up afterward so that Kurt could see the new bottom card. "Dis ain't your card, right?"

"Of course not."

Remy nodded, and slid out the bottom card again, placing it on the table on top of the first. "An' dis ain't it either, right?"

"No."

Remy grinned, and repeated his actions a third time. "An' dis ain't your card either, _n'est-ce pas_?"

Kurt gaped at the deck in Remy's hand, because of course, it wasn't. The bottom card should have been Kurt's, but it wasn't. Kurt's card was actually sitting face down on top of the discard stack.

"An' dis ain't your card, am I right?"

"Where is it?"

"Be patient, it'll turn up."

After displaying several more cards that weren't Kurt's card, Remy picked up the discard pile and began working his way though it, revealing once again the series of cards that weren't Kurt's until there was only one left. "I t'ink dis is yours."

Grinning broadly, he handed the last card to Kurt. "Nine of clubs. Keep it. It means obstacles to overcome."

"But, that's my card. How did you know? How did you do that? I saw every card you put in that pile."

"'Lot's of practice. Sleight of hand's good trainin'."

Kurt looked deeply impressed. "That is so cool. Can you pull coins out of people's ears, too?"

"Depends on how big deir ears are."

Now that Kurt was no longer glaring at him resentfully, Remy decided that the time had come to ask about a shirt.

"Now dat you got your nine of clubs, do you t'ink I could maybe borrow a shirt?" He held up the one Ororo had left him. "Dis one's got dat stupid sponge t'ing on it."

Kurt snickered. "It's Scott's." He suddenly vanished from his place on the bed, leaving behind a burst of sulfurous smoke, and reappeared by the dresser, pulling one of the drawers open and riffling though it with both hands. He still hadn't put his card down, though. It was now being held in his tail.

Remy felt his jaw drop, and was instantly filled with burning envy. The places one could get into with a power like that… The things one could do with a prehensile tail…

"_Merde_. I wish I could do dat. _Poof_, an' den _poof_, an' you're somewhere else. Can you hang from your tail, too?"

Kurt turned around again, holding out a flannel shirt. "Yes. Here's your shirt."

"Dat is so sweet. You can hang upside down an' still have your hands an' feet free. Almost enough to make me want a tail."

Kurt's eyes lit up. It was obvious that he had issues with his appearance—who could blame him?—and equally obvious that appreciating his mutation instead of being disgusted by it was the fastest way to get into his good graces. "Really? You really think it's cool?"

"Hell yeah. Just t'ink of de t'ings I could do wit' a prehensile tail. I bet you can climb like a monkey."

The buttons on the shirt were all fastened, so he took it from Kurt's hands and turned away to pull it over his head. He was stopped by an exclamation from behind him. "What's that on your butt? Is that a skeleton?"

Oh, yeah. That. "He's not a skeleton. He's Baron Samedi, an' he's on my lower back, not my butt."

"Who's Baron Samedi?" Kurt asked. Remy tugged the shirt the rest of the way on and answered, "De voodoo god of death. Baron Saturday, dey call him sometimes, or Baron Cemetary. He's a skeleton wit' a top hat an' dark glasses."

"Wow. When did you get it? Did it hurt?"

"Like a bitch. I got it for my fifteenth birt'day, after I did my first solo. Henri t'ought I ought to get Mardi Gras masks, since it was Mardi Gras, but I liked _M'sieu le Baron_ better." 

'_The brat passed his ordeal_,' Henri had told the tattoo artist proudly. '_Only fifteen, an' he already a master. Pure talent_.' The tattoo artist, a Guild member himself, had nodded knowingly, and led the whole crowd of them inside to pick out a design. '_Get a playin' card_,' Emil had advised. _'Dat way you always have one of dose t'ings wit' you'. '_Non_, get Mardi Gras masks, for your birt'day.'_ He'd made a face at that one, declining it scornfully_. 'Dat's gay.' 'So's Henri.' 'Your_ maman _don't t'ink so, Baptiste_.'

Remy was startled out of his memories by a sharp knock on the door.

"Kurt, you're going to, like, be late for dinner."

"_Ja, ja_, I'm coming," Kurt called. "Last one there is a rotten egg." Then he vanished again, before Remy could remind him that he needed someone to show him how to get to the dining room.

"Yeah, well, first one dere smells like one," he muttered. He left the room the boring, way, through the door. One of the girls from this afternoon was waiting in the hallway, the cute one with the ponytail. When she saw him, she did a double take.

"You're that guy from the museum. What are you doing in _Kurt's_ room? Talking about your butt? Kurt, like, has a girlfriend."

"Does she know he's blue?" It slipped out before Remy could stop himself.

"Do you really have," blush, "a tattoo on your butt?"

"Be real nice to me and maybe I show you sometime." He winked.

"Eeww, as if!" Then she sank down through the floor as if she were a ghost, leaving him alone in the hallway, with no one to show him where dinner was.

He knelt down and knocked on the floor. "'Ey, come back. I'm hungry."

^_~

"The new kid has a dancing skeleton tattooed on his butt, pass it on."

"You pass it on."

"Give me back my fork!"

"Make me."

"I think he's sharing Kurt's room. He, like, totally tried to hit on me in the hallway."

"Don't let Lance find out."

"Hey, I was gonna eat that!"

Dinner at Xavier's Institute was always an experience, and usually it was an experience that made Jean feel as if she were babysitting a bunch of ten year olds. Bobby froze all of his food before eating it, and frequently other people's food as well, just because he could. Kitty phased her arm through whoever was next to her in order to snag the last dinner roll before someone else (usually Kurt) could. Kurt ate everything in sight and used his tail to snag the rolls Kitty had gotten to first off her plate when she wasn't looking. Evan used his spikes as impromptu chopsticks. Jamie inevitably duplicated himself when dessert was served. 

Tonight was no exception. The only thing that made this evening's meal different from the usual was the presence of the museum kid. No, Remy, not 'that kid from the museum,' or 'the pickpocket,' or 'Logan's prey.' He had a name. She really had to stop mentally echoing the mansion-wide habit of assigning labels and nicknames to people. It was rude to identify someone simply by a label, even if only in one's thoughts, but it was so easy to slip into the habit of thinking of people by their code names. Thinking of Logan as Wolverine didn't count, though, since the one was nearly as much his name as the other.

Remy-who-was-not-Museum-Pickpocket had shown up several minutes late, sliding into the last open seat with mumbled apologies. After the obligatory double-take upon seeing Hank, he ate in silence for the most part, eyes downcast, but she could tell that he was watching the display of powers around him, glancing around covertly from under the veil of hair that hung over his eyes. Clean, it was a warm shade somewhere between brown and auburn, and a rather effective mask.

"So," Evan asked bluntly after a few minutes, "you staying here or going to juvie?"

Jean was almost certain that she and Scott winced at the exact same moment. Meeting his gaze across the table, she could practically hear the reprimand about manners that he wanted to give Evan without even needing to use her powers.

"Dey don't send mutants to juvie," Remy told him, equally bluntly. "You got powers, you get tried as an adult. 'Least, you do in Louisiana."

"Remy is staying here for now," Scott interjected. He managed to keep the misgivings he felt about the arrangement out of his voice, but Jean could feel them anyway. "The Professor's going to try to get him into Bayville High."

"What grade?" Rogue asked half-heartedly. Most of her attention was focused on her food, as she seemed to be trying to pretend that the Remy did not exist, complicated though this was by the fact that a) everyone was discussing him and b) he was sitting next to her. Apparently, she still hadn't forgiven him for getting them kicked out of the art museum.

"Junior," Scott continued. "Apparently, he was a sophomore the last time he attended school."

"Yeah, at St. Sebastian's. Catholic school." Remy made a face. "Dat stuff about nuns hittin' you wit' rulers if you don't behave? It's true. Dat an' every time anyone brought up demons in religion class, dey all turned an' looked at me." 

"Ja, I know what you mean." Kurt shook his head sadly. "When my parents had me baptized, the priest was afraid that I'd burst into flame when the holy water touched me." While he spoke, he reached for the serving dish to help himself to more spaghetti, stretching his tail out at the same time to snag another piece of garlic bread. Before he could reach it, Bobby pointed a finger and froze the bread to the plate.

"Score! I got it first. Someone other than you is getting seconds tonight."

"When I was thirteen," Remy announced to the rest of the table, "I used my power at de table once. I had to eat in de kitchen. For a week." He grinned suddenly, the expression transforming his face from sullen to charming and completely endearing. "Was worth it, dough. I'll never forget de look on my cousin's face when his baked potato exploded."

Hank, tonight's token adult supervision, had remained silent up until this point, but he was unable to let this pass. "You do realize," he pointed out, "that tomorrow night, someone's food is most likely going to explode, in imitation of your previous prank? It will probably be mine." He cast a long-suffering glance over the assortment of teenagers, then sighed. "Please, whichever one of you decides to do it, don't choose something that leaves stains. Or something sticky."

"Naw." Jubilee grinned. "Logan's gonna be in charge tomorrow night. None of us would be that stupid."

"So, thief-boy," Rogue ventured, finally breaking down and addressing Remy, "if you had a family and cousins and all, how'd you end up way up here in Yankee-land living on the street?"

"Duh." Kitty rolled her eyes. "He, like, ran away. Probably because they weren't cool with his being a mutant. I mean, my parents were certainly less than thrilled."

"_Non_, I didn't run away, me. I got in trouble. It complicated. Real complicated." Another of those intensely charming smiles-something about them felt forced to Jean, as if he were trying a little too hard to be likeable and friendly. He must practice them in a mirror. "Way too long an' borin' a story to tell now."

The conversation shifted after that to a long discussion of the field trip Hank was going to be taking most of the younger X-Men on the next weekend. Most of them were excited about going, even though the destination-a redwood forest on the west coast-was not what the majority of them would have chosen for a vacation spot. Kitty, whom 

Jean knew had suggested the trip, looked thrilled, but Roberto asked at least three times why they couldn't make a side trip to the beach while they were out there.

Jean kept silent for the most part, since she herself was not going, but she couldn't help feeling slightly envious of those who were. It would be nice to get out of the mansion for a bit, away from all of the constant training and missions, as well as the endless interpersonal issues that always resulted from having too many teenagers in one house. There was Kitty's maybe-romance with Lance, and the seemingly endless series of traumas it seemed to produce, Amara's discomfort adjusting to high school, Roberto's self-esteem issues, the weird threesome-triangle-whatever-it-was between Sam, Bobby, and Jubilee—she still hadn't figured out if there was romance involved, or if they just liked causing trouble together—and Rogue's, well, being Rogue. Whether they voiced their problems or not didn't matter, not when you were a telepath. Everyone's emotional stress always spilled over onto Jean in the end.

Sometimes it seemed like she spent so much time being an X-Man and a student and a, well, _den mother_, that she never had time to be a teenager. This new student would almost certainly bring his own share of problems into the mix, but at least his mind didn't leak. He was also rather cute, in a scruffy sort of way. Jean's tastes had always leaned more toward clean-cut than scruffy, though. Like Duncan, or Scott, though Duncan's "me Tarzan, you Jean" attitude had really begun to grate on her. She really had to decide what to do about that. Maybe next weekend, with most of the rest of the X-Men out of the house, she would have some time to think.

^_~


	2. One of Us

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DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by Marvel Comics and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

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Posted by: Elspeth (AKA Elspethdixon).

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Author's Notes: This is an X-Men Evolution AU. The show's producers finally saw the light and added Gambit to the series, but I have to confess to being a bit disappointed that they made him an adult. We don't get to see teenage Gambit in all his juvenile delinquent glory. This story is my attempt to correct that. Thank you to Draqonelle, fellow X-Ev fangirl, who helped me come up with ideas (like the brilliant Pietro meets the wall scene).

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Ships: Hints of Rogue/Gambit, hits of Scott/Jean. Kurt/Amanda and Lance/Kitty also mentioned.

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Part Two: One of Us.

Consider yourself at home.

Consider yourself one of the family.

We've taken to you so strong,

It's clear we're going to get along.

As far as Scott was concerned, this decision to try adding Remy LeBeau to the X-Men was not one of the Professor's better ideas. So, okay, yeah, he'd been wrong about Lance, but Lance hadn't been some street kid from nowhere who'd tried to steal from them. He firmly dismissed the nagging little voice that whispered that he himself might have ended up a street kid from nowhere, under different circumstances. He would not have been a strung-out-looking klepto. And he never would have tried to rob Wolverine, no matter how desperate he was. That in itself argued against the possession of basic survival skills. And now, he was supposed to take the Artful Dodger _shopping_.

Granted, the clothes he'd arrived in hadn't been good for anything but rags to wax the X-Jet with, and he couldn't keep on wearing borrowed stuff forever, but why did Scott have to be the one to drag him--and Kurt, and Rogue, and Kitty--to the Bayview Mall? He'd agreed to do it, he even managed not to complain about it too much—there was just too much to do around the mansion for four adults to do it all, which meant that he and Jean had to pitch in sometimes--but that didn't mean that he had to like it.

"Wow. Kurt and Taller Kurt." Rogue nodded at the two X-Men, well, X-man and probationary X-Man, walking toward Scott's car. With Kurt's image inducer on, the pair of them really did look like a pair of skinny, long-haired clones, dressed in over-large clothes. The difference was, Kurt's clothes were too big on purpose, whereas LeBeau's didn't fit because he'd borrowed them all from Ray and Scott. Scott didn't know what Ray was going to do with his stuff when he got it back, but Scott planned never to wear those pants again. And LeBeau could most definitely _keep _the underwear.

"_Merde_." LeBeau whistled at the sight of Isabella, raising an eyebrow in appreciation. "Dat is one nice car. She yours?"

"Yeah." Scott nodded toward the back seat. "Get in. And buckle up, everyone." The sooner they left, the sooner this whole charade would be over with.

Everyone piled into Isabella, probably smearing mud on her leather seats. Rogue slid into the passenger side seat before anyone else could get near it, yelling, "Shotgun." At times Scott wondered if Rouge might not have a crush on him. She always seemed to find some way to be near him, or watch him, or just hang around him. The thought made him feel slightly guilty, since even without her powers, she just wasn't the sort of girl he went for. Jean, now, Jean was just about perfect. Gorgeous, understanding (usually) and easy to talk to, without any of Rogue's defensive walls and attitude. Too bad she was still dating that troglodyte Matthews.

"Why do I have to be in the middle?" Kurt complained. Everyone else ignored him. They contented themselves with looking out the windows, making snide remarks about the passengers of other cars (in Rogue's case), or complaining about Scott's taste in music. He finally shut that line of conversation up by announcing that if Kurt didn't like R.E.M., he could buy his own car and listen to his own tapes on its tape player. LeBeau didn't do much talking. He was probably still worried that they would call the cops on him if he didn't keep a low profile. It was a valid worry, as Scott fully planned on advising the Professor to do just that if LeBeau turned out to be a problem.

The mall parking lot was one of those labyrinths of islands and dead end drives most malls seemed to be surrounded by. Scott strongly suspected that the designer had flunked out of civil engineering school, and why the Bayview Better Business Bureau had hired him remained a mystery. Even on Sunday afternoon, the place was crowded, and the five of them ended up hiking halfway across the parking lot after he'd finally found a spot.

Once inside, Scott led his charges to the Eddie Bower store. He was halfway to the back, looking at a rack of khakis, when he realized that they had not followed him inside.

^_~

"Dere's no way I'm wearin' clothes from dat place," Remy announced, watching Scott disappear into Outdoorsy Preppies central. Rogue couldn't help but agree. 

"What do y'all say we ditch him and go to Hot Topic?"

"How about the food court?" Kurt suggested hopefully.

"We're here to shop, not eat." Kitty waved a hand toward Remy. "We need to get him an entire wardrobe. This is going to be fun!"

Rogue could see it now. Remy was going to end up attired entirely in pastels, with Hello Kitty accessories. 

"How 'bout we go to Hot Topic like Roguey said." He grinned at her, obviously trying to flirt. "I ought to t'ank dem for sellin' her dat see-t'rough shirt, anyway." 

Rogue just barely managed to keep from rolling her eyes. Nobody was that obvious. She wasn't buying it. He'd acquired a new pair of sunglasses from someone at the mansion, and was now half-hidden behind them, so that, like Scott, it was impossible to tell where he was looking. Rogue would have bet money that it was at her breasts.

However, as long as he was agreeing with her, she might as well take advantage of it. The two of them hustled Kurt and a protesting Kitty through the arched doorway of Hot Topic, across the giant, glass-ceilinged central thoroughfare from Eddie Bower, and into a crowded cave of black walls and loud music.

Kitty sought sanctuary amidst the My Little Pony and Rainbow Bright shirts, trying to look invisible. She was probably afraid that some scary Goth or punk would start hitting on her. Rogue began inspecting the racks of collars and jewelry up by the counter, trying to pretend that the others weren't with her. Unfortunately, Remy's insistence on hearing her opinion of everything he tried on made that nearly impossible.

"You look like a skank in that thing," she announced, surveying the tight black top with fishnet sleeves. There was no way in hell she was going to tell him how hot he looked with the mesh clinging to his muscles. They weren't as big as Scott's muscles anyway. "One who charges by the hour."

"It's almost exactly what you're wearin', only black instead of green." Another smarmy grin. "Dey say imitation is de sincerest form of flattery."

"You look like Rogue's evil twin." Kurt seemed to pop out of nowhere—possibly literally out of nowhere—to appear at her elbow. "Are you going to get one of those collars too?"

"Why not?" Remy pulled a black spiked collar down from a hook above his head and tried it on, leaning one arm on Rogue's shoulder as he peered into the mirror.

"Don't touch me." She ducked away instantly, re-establishing a safe distance between them. "And if you're buying that, I'm throwing mine away."

"But, but den we won't match," Remy said in a tremulous voice. "And den we can't be sisters."

Kurt snorted with laughter. 

"Traitor," Rogue muttered. That smarmy piece of jailbait thought he was funny, but he wasn't. And he wasn't sexy either, regardless of how hard he tried to be. Actually, he was sort of intimidating. People just didn't look at her like that, lips halfway curved as if they were caught between smirking and drooling, they didn't compliment her, whether it was sincere or simply sleazy, and they certainly never touched her.

Except that Remy apparently hadn't noticed this, because he was touching her now. His hip was pressed against hers, his arm, resting on the counter, brushed hers, and his head, bent to one side so that he could inspect his earrings in the mirror, was so close to hers that his hair brushed her cheek. Did the boy have no concept of personal space?

"Back off, Cajun." She ducked away again, this time adding a push at his shoulder into the bargain. "I told you not to touch me."

Remy almost seemed to flinch, backing off to a more reasonably distance and dropping his gaze from the mirror to the counter top. "You don't have to shove at me. I ain't got cooties."

Watching him close himself off behind a defensive wall, she suddenly felt guilty. It wasn't his fault that no one could touch her. "Yeah, well, I have. You touch my skin, you'll pass out. It's my power."

"And here I t'ought dat was being sexy as hell." He leaned forward again and picked up a lock of her hair, rubbing it between his fingers. "_Mais_, nothin' gonna happen to me if I don't touch your skin, no?" He released her hair and dropped his hand back to the counter, just in time to escape having it swatted away. "I t'ink I'm gonna invest in a pair of gloves."

Suddenly, it was all too much—the closeness, the lame compliments, the intense attention, they were all like poisoned bait in a mousetrap, promising to feed a hunger, but capable of delivering only pain. She wouldn't be able to respond even if the attentions had been wanted. Even if it were Scott, handsome and responsible and earnest, finally noticing her the way she'd daydreamed about for months, she wouldn't be able to do anything but push him away. Remy might be a criminal from nowhere with God only knew what ulterior motives, but he had succeeded in reminding her quite firmly of all of the things that she could never have. "Stop making fun of me." She turned her back to him, grabbing the pile of clothes he'd selected out of a surprised Kurt's arms and throwing them down on the counter before flagging down a salesperson. "Let's buy your junk and go. Scott's probably looking for us."

"Who's makin' fun of you?" Remy arched his eyebrows, face a parody of shock. The expression might have been more effective if said eyebrows hadn't been half-covered by his sunglasses. "I'm just tryin' to be friendly. If I make all y'all like me, den maybe I get to stay. An' I ain't getting' all of dat stuff." He gestured at the pile of clothes on the counter, then began pulling items out and handing them back to Kurt.

"Why do you guys keep handing everything to me?" Kurt complained, looking down at his new armful of shirts and accessories. "I don't work here." They both ignored him.

"Yeah, well, drooling over me like a fat boy with cake isn't gonna help," Rogue snapped at the Jailbait. "Ever tried subtlety?"

"I prefer de direct approach."

"That how you ended up in jail?"

"How'd you hear 'bout dat?" he demanded, switching from dubious charm to defensiveness as if someone had flipped a light switch in his head. Rogue felt a bit guilty. She shouldn't have just blurted that out, but she'd heard Ororo saying something to Hank about jail and police reports while they'd been discussing registering Remy at Bayville High, and it had most definitely stuck in her mind--it was hard for information like that not to.

"You were in jail?" Kurt's eyes went wide and he stared at Remy as if he'd just sprouted a tail of his own, with horns to match. The girl behind the counter started ringing items up faster, suddenly seeming very eager to get the three of them out of her store.

"Only for two months," Remy mumbled, suddenly not meeting anyone's eyes. "I made a stupid mistake."

"Real stupid, if it landed you in jail."

"Yeah. I should have figured dat de vault would have a secondary alarm system wired to it, set to go off if de door opened wit'out de right voiceprint. I never should have let Belle do de plannin'."

"What vault?" Kitty drifted over from the non-Goth corner of the store, interest obviously caught. "What's this about alarms systems and voiceprints? Sounds like _Mission Impossible_."

"Yeah, except the thief wasn't nearly as good looking Tom Cruise." Rogue eyed Remy speculatively as she spoke. Kitty was right; vaults and alarm systems sounded way out of a sticky-fingered street kid's league. However, he sure sounded like he knew what he was talking about. Wherever he had been before showing up in New York, it certainly hadn't been anyplace law abiding and normal--not that that was much of a surprise. Then again, he could have made the whole thing up on the spot to try and impress her. If so, it wasn't working.

"That will be fifty-two dollars and seventeen cents," the girl behind the counter announced, somewhat breathlessly. "Thank you for shopping at Hot Topic. Please come again." She sounded as if she sincerely hoped that they would _never_ come again. She also forgot to give them one of those little stamped discount cards, but Rogue decided to take pity on her and leave without mentioning it.

Unfortunately, as they turned to go, Kurt muttering information at Kitty in an excited whisper--Rogue caught "jail" and "two months" and "really cool"--Kurt's elbow, or possibly tail, knocked against a little figurine on the counter, sending it straight to the floor.

"Oh no." Kurt was instantly contrite. "I'm sorry. I'll pay for it."

"Don't worry about it. Really." Obviously, anything was preferably to having hardened criminals hanging around the store. Rogue was pretty sure she saw the girl's shoulders sag in relief when the four of them finally ducked out onto the walkway. She also was pretty sure she saw the salesgirl counting all of the items on and around the counter as well, as if to make sure that nothing had been taken. Beautiful. Now, every time Rogue tried to go into Hot Topic, she would get the evil eye from salespeople who thought she hung out with shoplifters.

The four of them cruised the mall in search of Scott, hitting JC Pennys, Sears, and Hechts and picking up clothes along the way. There were plenty of bargains to be found, but no Cyclops. He wasn't in the Gap, the shoe store, the bookstore, or the imitation surf shop-type place Risti had dubbed "the Tiki Hutt" (it had been a long shot anyway, but he might have been looking in there for something to buy Alex). By the time they had been reduced to checking Eddie Bauer again, all of Remy's clothing budget had been spent, and his borrowed stuff had gradually been replaced with new. Skin-tight denim had appeared in place of Scott's khakis, a black Mardi Gras t-shirt had been substituted for Ray's button down, and expensive as Hell Timberland boots had replaced the ratty sneakers. Combined with the straight-out-of-film-noir trench coat Remy had insisted on getting, it was definitely an interesting look. A lot of the girls they passed on the walkways seemed to share this opinion, and Remy was anything but immune to the attention. A definite swagger had begun to creep into his step.

Scott was not in Eddie Bauer either. By this point, Rogue had begun to get a bit worried. Scott was their ride home. What if he'd gotten ticked off at their abandonment of him and left, leaving them stranded? It wasn't a very Scott-like thing to do, but everyone had a snapping point, and he had probably been pretty annoyed when he had looked up to find them all gone. Probably worried as well. He might even have thought that Sabertooth or someone had attacked or kidnapped them--unlikely, but not impossible, and Scott could be a bit paranoid sometimes.

"Maybe we should split up and look for him," Kitty suggested. "We'd cover more ground that way."

"No." Rogue shook her head. "Once one of us found him, we'd have to spend the next two hours looking for everyone else."

"Good point." Remy reached into the pocket of his new coat and pulled out a pack of cigarettes--where the Hell had he gotten those?--tapping one out into his palm. He leaned against one of the columns lining the central thoroughfare and lit up, using the tip of his finger instead of a lighter. "Ah, _très bon_." He leaned his head back and sucked on his nasty cancerstick, letting the smoke trickle out of his nose and mouth. "_Dieu_. I love cigarettes more den other people's jewelry." Charming. Not only was he a criminal, he smoked, too.

"Where did you get that?" Kurt demanded. "You can't smoke it in here. We'll get in trouble."

"Hey, it de first cig I've had in t'ree days, 'kay? I'll put it out 'fore we catch up wit' Scott."

"Ee~ew." Kitty wrinkled her nose. "I'm so glad Lance doesn't smoke. It'd be like kissing an ashtray."

"You've kissed Lance?" Kurt swung his attention away from Remy, turning to face Kitty. "He didn't make you, did he?"

Maybe if Rogue closed her eyes and wished really hard, they would all go away and Scott would appear instead. Or maybe not.

"Oh come on, Kurt. What have you got to be jealous over? You're dating Amanda."

"Hey, y'all, why don't we go to the food court and sit down for a bit," Rogue suggested. Her stomach was beginning to seriously protest the fact that she hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast, and food would probably make Kurt and Kitty be quiet.

Scott was waiting for them at one of the tables near the front. He did not look happy.

^_~

Kurt was out of bed early the next morning, sliding quietly out of the room while Remy was still dead to the world in the other bed, nothing visible but a bit of reddish hair sticking out from under the covers. When you had as many teenagers living in one house as they did, it paid to be an early riser. First one up got first crack at a shower. And anyway, he was supposed to meet Amanda before school, so he needed some extra time to get ready.

Amanda. Just thinking her name made him want to smile. She knew that he was a mutant, had even seen what he really looked like, and she wanted to date him anyway. She didn't even mind the fur! There were times when he felt that it was almost too good to be true. Surely, she would get tired of hanging out with someone like him, would eventually decide to start going out with a normal guy instead. Some one tall and handsome, with a cool car and a letter jacket, instead of a tail and pointy ears.

If Kurt could do card tricks and rewire security systems like Remy, and had a hard-core tattoo, Amanda would probably think he was really cool. Unfortunately, it was rather difficult to get much in the way of body art when you were blue and fuzzy. He couldn't even get his ear pierced--the piercing technician or whatever they were called would feel his skin and know that something was up. So he had to settle for being sharp and well groomed. And borrowing Scott's after-shave, which wasn't exactly necessary for him, since he didn't shave, but Amanda would probably like the smell.

He took the precaution of not asking Scott about first, since the older mutant was still a bit ticked off about being abandoned in Eddie Bauer.

As he was coming back from the shower, arms full of towels to drop in the laundry basket and his tail wrapped around a bottle of shampoo, he passed Remy, obviously heading to the bathroom for his own shower. He was so startled that he nearly dropped the shampoo.

Remy was wearing a turtleneck that was either way too small or designed by some company that Kurt himself would never have gotten clothing from. It was black, made out of some spandexy material that God had never intended turtlenecks to be made from, and so tight that anyone looking for it could see his nipples. It was also sleeveless, the better to show off his arm muscles, which weren't as big as Scott's or Logan's, but, at least in that outfit, were a lot more visible. Just looking at him made Kurt feel exposed. 

"Mornin', Kurt." Remy nodded at him. "_Comment ça va_?"

"Uh, fine. _Gutten morgen_. Interesting outfit." He pointed with his shampoo-laden tail at the painted-on turtleneck and jeans. "You better not let Logan see you before you leave, or he'll make you change. He's never done that to anyone except Jubilee up 'til now."

"T'anks for de tip. I won't. See you at breakfast, _mon ami_."

Kurt nodded, and reached inside himself to flip that little switch somewhere inside his head. There was a second of sulfurous darkness, and then he was back in his room. A few moments to drop shower stuff and gather up homework and one quick teleport later, and he was in the kitchen. As usual, he was the first one to arrive, which meant that he got to finish of the last of the Lucky Charms.

Kurt was on his third bowl of Lucky Charms when Remy finally made it down to the kitchen, straggling in behind the others. Kurt had observed several things about his new roommate over the past three days, and one of them was that he spent as much time on his hair in the morning as Kitty.

He made a beeline for the coffee, and proceeded to pour himself a mug, adding milk and sugar until it turned a pale beige. He leaned against the counter and sipped it slowly. That was another thing about Remy. He never stood up straight. Of course, Kurt didn't stand up straight all the time either. He hadn't yet figured out how to make slouching look cool, though, and Remy had obviously mastered that art long ago.

"So, what you 'tink, Roguey?" He asked, staring speculatively at the wristwatch in his hand. "Brown, blue, or green?"

"Like I care." Rogue didn't even bother to look up from her cereal bowl, attention focused on the cheerios floating in milk as if they were tealeaves spelling out her future. "It's too early to care about anything."

"What color were they before your mutation manifested?" Scott asked, voice slightly muffled. His entire upper body was buried in the refrigerator as he searched for grape jelly to spread on his toast. He wasn't going to find any. Kurt had used the last of it last week when he'd filled Berserker's shoes with jam. Served him right for that "smurf" crack.

"Red an' black." Remy shifted the watch to his other hand, peering at it more closely. "They been red an' black as long as I can remember. I t'ink I was born dis way."

"Dude," Evan commented, mouth full of toast. "Sucks to be you."

"Thank you, Evan, for that display of sensitivity."

"Brown would go good with your hair," Kitty offered. "Green would make you look like Rogue's brother, or something."

Rogue continued staring into her cereal, but glanced up long enough to toss out one word. "Brown."

"Brown it is." Remy poked a button on the side of the watch, then slapped it onto his wrist. His eyes blurred for a second, and then the red irises and black sclera were replaced by a normal brown and white. Suddenly, he looked like any one of a million teenagers--if they had been getting ready to go clubbing rather than to go to school. "Anybody have a mirror?"

Jean leaned down and rummaged through the bookbag by her feet, pulling out one of those little round make-up things and handing it over. Remy flipped it open and angled it until the tiny little mirror caught his reflection. Then he froze. There was an odd look on his face.

"What's wrong?" Kurt asked, finally speaking up. "Doesn't it work? Mine shorts out sometimes."

"_Non_, it works fine. Be lookin' sexy as hell, actually. It just… doesn't look like me."

"Oh." Kurt nodded sagely. "You'll get used to it. Try having your skin change color. It took a month before I stopped doing double-takes every time I looked in a mirror." Actually, he still hadn't gotten entirely used to the altered, human-looking him, though he was infinitely grateful for the inducer that made it possible. School would have been out of the question without it.

"I look normal."

"Not in those clothes."

"_Non_, I mean, I look human."

"You are human." Scott removed himself from the fridge, obviously having given up on the jelly. "Stop playing with that thing and come on. We're going to be late."

"Everyone except you is finished eating," Jean told him, sounding slightly smug.

Scott shut the fridge, not quite slamming the door, and scooped up his cold toast, shoving both pieces in his mouth at once. He picked up his glass of milk, tossed the entire thing back in one long swallow, and started for the door. "Can we go now?"

So they went. Kurt was the first one out the door. Amanda would be waiting for him by the basketball court.

^_~

Heads turned as Remy walked toward the school, ripples of conversation spreading out around him as students took notice of a new face. Except, he was pretty sure that they weren't looking at his face. Not in these clothes. It truly was nice to be appreciated, especially when, this time, there was no risk of appreciation turning to fear the moment someone got a good look at his eyes. 

Poorly buried instincts rose from their shallow graves and insisted that he drop out of sight, drift into the shadows, slink instead of saunter, that the attention of so many people was dangerous. He ignored them. He wasn't at this place on business, his own or anyone else's. It was okay to be noticed, good even. There was no pinch to be carried out, no secret orders to follow, nothing to be compromised. The only objective was to be normal.

Well, not exactly normal, per say. Certainly not 'normal' in the sense of 'average.' Remy grinned cheerfully at a purple-haired girl who had come up to talk to Rogue and ran a hand through his hair, held out of his face by a black headband. It was nice not to have to wear it hanging in his eyes. The purple-haired girl sneered at him and dragged Rogue away. She didn't know what she was missing.

"You'll be in French with Jean first period," Scott was saying. "Just follow her and you'll find your classroom. It's written on your schedule too."

"T'anks." He switched the strap of his new book bag to his other shoulder-the textbooks inside must have weighed a good thirty pounds--and was turning to go inside when it happened.

A kid came streaking toward the school steps, running so fast that he was nearly a blur. He turned to look at Remy as he flashed by, and kept looking, head still turned, until he slammed into the brick wall with a loud _thud_. Right into the wall!

Jaw dropping in astonishment, Remy dashed over to the ill-fated runner, who now lay in a heap at the base of the wall. What felt like half the student body followed close on his heels, grouping in a loose circle around the scene. 

Remy dropped to a crouch next to the kid, poking tentatively at his shoulder.

"You okay, _homme_? You ran into de wall."

The kid blinked up at him, looking dazed. His hair was as pale as Ororo's, bits of it sticking out like antennae. "You can see your nipples through that shirt," he mumbled.

"Uh, I t'ink he gonna be fine," Remy announced to the crowd, rising to his feet again and taking a careful step back from the still mostly-prone accident victim. His turtleneck, which had been purposefully chosen to look as sexy as possible, now suddenly felt revealing. Maybe he should have worn something else.

"Mr. Maximoff?" Principal Kelly appeared on the edge of the crowd, looking concerned. "What happened? Is he all right?"

A half dozen people at once hastened to tell Kelly all about 'Maximoff's' sudden collision with the wall. 

"And he was like this, and the wall was like this, and it was like, bam!"

"And then he bounced. I saw him bounce. Did you see him bounce?"

"He ran into the wall?" Kelly looked stupefied. "Why did he run into the wall?" The only answer was a scattered chorus of snickers. "Ah, Mr. Dukes," he pointed to a big kid with a mohawk, "Please conduct Mr. Maximoff to the nurse's office. Um, Mr. Maximoff," he asked the white-haired kid, who was now being pulled to his feet by Dukes, "are you all right? How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Three. My head hurts. I'm going to die, aren't I?"

"Only of embarrassment," a skinny kid snickered. "You stared so hard at the new guy that you ran into the wall. I knew it." He bounced in place, practically hopping. "I knew you was gay!"

"Shut up, Todd," Maximoff muttered. "I'm going to hurt you later."

The big kid stared pulling him away. "C'mon, Pietro. We have to go make sure your brain isn't going to leak out your ears or something."

"I knew it. I knew he was gay!"

Principal Kelly turned to survey the crowd of students. "I assume you all have classes to go to?"

Nearly everybody scattered. Remy started to slowly inch away. "Not you, Mr. LeBeau. I will excuse you this time, as this is your first day, but in the future, please be aware that we have a dress code at this school." He gestured toward Dukes and Maximoff, who were slowly walking away with Todd bouncing after them ("I knew it! I was right and Tabitha was wrong!"). "And this is why. You see? He was distracted by your inappropriate attire. Distracted from his studies."

Scott made a choking sound, obviously trying to suppress laughter. The rest of the X-Men didn't bother. "Distracted," Evan gasped, near hysterics. "He was distracted all right."

"Yes, sir," Remy told Kelly. "I try to be less distractin' in de future, sir."

"See that you do, Mr. LeBeau. See that you do. I suggest you all report to your first period classes before the late bell rings."

Kelly strode away, leaving the rest of them to dash frantically to class. As Remy turned to go, a hand grabbed his arm.

"Hey, you the new X-Dork?" 

"New what?" Remy eyed the owner of the hand. A boy about his own height, with dark hair and ripped jeans, he had been part of the crowd that had gathered around Maximoff. And he also apparently knew about Professor Xavier's X-Men team, even though it was supposed to be a secret. Unless X-Dorks was a reference to something else, which was possible. Not likely, but possible. 

"You're one of those Xavier's Institute people, right? You came in with them." He smiled, with made him look a lot less like a petty thug. "Whoever you are, you just won me twenty-five bucks off of Tabitha. I'm Lance Alvers."

Remy decided to turn down the paranoia for once, and reached out to shake Lance's hand. "Remy LeBeau. Yeah, I'm wit' de Institute. Just joined. Dey pulled some strings to get me into school here." He tried a smile. "Sorry 'bout your friend. I hope he be all right."

"What, Pietro?" Lance shook his head slightly. "He'll be fine. I think his skull's made out of granite." His eyes shifted to something beyond Remy's shoulder, and narrowed. "Summers."

"Alvers," Scott returned, jaw set. His eyes were probably narrowed as well, but with Scott it was impossible to tell. Well, well. It looked as if Shades had issues with Lance. Remy revised his opinion of Lance Alvers upward a notch. If Scott didn't like him, he might be a fun guy to hang out with. 

"Hi Lance." Kitty bounced forward, apparently so eager that she didn't notice that part of her arm phased through Remy. He shivered, and rubbed his chest, certain that he could feel a trail of cold where it had been.

"Want to walk me to class?"

"Sure, Kitty." Lance scooped up Kitty's book bag and slung it over his own shoulder, and the two of them walked off, heads together. "Catch you later, LeBeau."

"If he hurts Kitty," Scott was muttering under his breath, "I will personally fry him until he turns into a crispy critter."

Jean sighed, in that special way that girls had, which could somehow indicate complete disgust for all men without a single word being spoken. "Mme. Santier's classroom is this way," she said to Remy, and then strode off, leaving him to follow.

Remy was followed through his first three periods by whispers about the wall incident, most of them accompanied by either snickers (from the guys) or appreciative whistles (from the girls). At first, it was fun, but eventually it began to get a little annoying. Still, it was infinitely preferable to the sorts of whispers that had circulated about him at St. Sebastian's, and it couldn't hurt to start the school year with a bang. He really ought to thank Maximoff for providing the bang, if in a rather over-literal manner.

Still, when he snuck outside and into the space under the bleacher for a cigarette between third and fourth period, he wasn't exactly thrilled to find Maximoff there, his white hair gleaming in the shadows.

"So are you or aren't you?" a blonde girl was demanding as Remy approached slowly, debating whether lack of nicotine would really be worse than the embarrassment of facing wall-boy. "Come on, Pietro, give me a straight answer. I've got twenty-five bucks riding on this."

"If I say yes, you'll make fun of me, if I say no, you'll hit on me. You're not getting an answer out of me. It's none of your business anyway."

"Um, hey," Remy managed, as he stepped into the cigarette-butt and candy bar wrapper-littered shade. The dim light felt good, after the bright sunlight and florescent light of the past few hours. The Professor's nifty little image inducer watch might make his eyes _look_ normal, but it hadn't totally removed the need for sunglasses. Beneath the hologram, his eyes were still abnormally sensitive to light. "Sorry 'bout dis mornin'. You okay?"

Maximoff broke of his conversation with the girl mid-sentence and spun around, blushing slightly when he saw Remy. "Yeah, fine. Great. Never been better. I was just a bit distracted this morning, you know. Not enough sleep, late for school, wasn't looking where I was going." He spoke extremely quickly, words coming out in a frantic rush that implied that he was either babbling out of nervousness, or sincerely in need of some Ritalin. 

"So," the blonde girl said, addressing Remy, "you're Nipple Boy."

Remy was pretty sure that, for an instant, he and Maximoff were united by an intense desire to sink down through the dirt like Kitty phasing through a wall, and never come out again. "No, I'm Remy Lebeau."

"Tabitha Smith, Brotherhood of Mutants. You can call me Boom-Boom." She grinned, posing with one hand on her hip. She had on very tight jeans, showing off a very nice pair of legs, and a shirt that revealed a thin line of midriff when she moved. It also had a neckline that a designer would definitely have described as 'plunging.' Maybe "Boom-Boom" was some sort of play on "Blonde Bombshell." "You really with the X-Men?"

"_Tabitha_," Maximoff hissed, "we're at _school_."

"_Oui_, I just--I mean, how do you know 'bout de X-Men?"

"'Cause I used to be one of them, before I get fed up with all of the judgmental bullshit and stupid rules." She searched through her pockets for something, then turned to Maximoff. "Borrow a cigarette?"

He reached into one of his pockets and produced a pair of slightly crumpled cigarettes. "I shouldn't give you handouts after the way you've been badgering me, but I'm feeling generous." He handed one cigarette to Tabitha and stuck the other in his mouth. "Got your lighter on you?"

"Sorry. I forgot everything this morning, even my homework. You got a lighter, Remy?"

Remy shook his head. "Don't carry one. Don't need one." He considered things for a moment. The two of them obviously knew about mutants--Maximoff probably was one, if his running speed that morning was anything to go by, and Tabitha as well, if her claim of being a former X-Man was true--so presumably it would be safe to show off a little. "Hold real still, Maximoff." He took a step toward the shorter boy and leaned forward until their faces were only a few inches apart, then reached up and tapped his finger against the end of Maximoff's cigarette, charging just the tip of it.

Maximoff watched his approach with wide eyes, then started back in surprise as the end of his cigarette flared pink for a second and ignited with a pop. "Ah! What did you--"

"Just gave the molecules a little jump-start." He grinned at the startled look on the other boy's face. "Don't worry, I don't blow anyt'ing up by accident. Anymore."

"Kicking." Tabitha held out her own cigarette. "Light me up too."

Remy took the cigarette from her, palming his own out at the same time, and slid both of them between his lips, lighting each with a touch of his finger. He drew a deep breath to get them going, pulling the smoke into his lungs. He felt more relaxed instantly, though it was probably psychosomatic. Nicotine didn't hit the bloodstream that quickly.

"An' one for de belle femme." He reached out to hand Tabitha's cigarette back to her, and was slightly startled when, instead of reaching for it, she leaned forward and parted her lips, obviously waiting for him to slid it straight into her mouth. He hesitated for a moment, then complied, being careful not to actually touch her lips. He didn't know her quite _that_ well yet.

She took a deep drag on the cigarette, then held it between two fingers, letting the smoke trickle out through her lips. "You blow stuff up too, huh? Looks like a match made in heaven. They don't call me Boom-Boom for nothing." She grinned again, wiggling her fingers. "You want it blown down, burned out, or raining around your head in pieces, I'm your girl. We ought to get together sometime. I bet it would be," dramatic pause, "explosive. Oh, I forgot to ask; what do you go by? He's Quicksilver." She jerked her thumb at Maximoff, who was ignoring them with a self-possession unusual in someone so young, obviously trying to pretend that he and his cigarette were alone under the bleachers.

"I don't have a magic name yet. I used to go by Gambit, dough."

"Gambit," she repeated. "That's a chess move, right?"

"_Mais oui_, means I'm always t'inkin' a couple of moves ahead. Cards are more my game den chess, dough."

"Hurry up and finish your cigarettes, slowpokes," Maximoff interrupted. "The bell's going to ring in two minutes and eight seconds."

"Yeah, sure. Whatever." Tabitha waved a hand airily. It was a gesture that reminded Remy of Belle. She used to wave her hand just that way, dismissing parents, police, and Guild rules with the same cavalier disregard for anything that got in the way of having fun. Maybe it was a blonde thing. "Anyway, like I said before, are you sure you're with the X-Dorks? You look like a guy who knows how to have a good time, and most of them wouldn't know a good time if it bit them in the ass. Except for Amara and Rogue. They're all right."

"Mm-hmm." The words "Rogue" and "good time" in the same sentence called up all sorts of interesting mental images. All that pale skin, uncovered and free from gloves and tights and scarves.… Too bad it was impossible. Then again, his papa had always said that the 'impossible' jobs were the most fun. The harder the pinch, the more satisfying it was to pull it off.

"Yo, Earth to Gambit. Remy. Whatever. You listening to me?"

"Yeah," he assured her. What had she been talking about? Oh yes. "De X-Men are borin'."

"More than boring, they're complete killjoys." Tabitha made a face. "Just try having a bit of fun and they'll come down on you like a ton of bricks. Real sticklers for rules, too. I mean, they've got a great house--beats the heck out of the junk heap me and the guys are stuck with--but living there is like being in an episode of the Brady Bunch. Back me up here, Pietro."

"They're a bunch of lame goody-two shoes. I'm surprised they let you out of the house dressed like that." He eyed Remy's clothing again, one silver eyebrow raised. Remy leaned one arm against a support pole, posing just a little bit and pushing those couple of months in Angola firmly to the back of his mind. When you're hot, you're hot, and you might as well accept the admiration as your due, regardless of the source.

"Dey aren't dat bad," he protested, feeling that he ought to make some attempt to defend his new friends? teammates? They really hadn't seemed as awful as Tabitha and Maximoff were making them sound, though he had gotten a lot of disapproving looks from Scott and Ororo.

"Just wait and see." Tabitha told him. "And whatever you do, don't get caught doing anything illegal. The Professor hates that. Steal something, and your life at that place is over. They'll never trust you again." She winked. "So if you decide to sneak out and meet me some night, don't get caught. Maybe I can convince Pietro to start something if you're in on the action."

"_Vraiment_?" Most of her last two sentences were lost on Remy. His mind had seized on the phrase "never trust you again." An image of the Professor's face appeared behind his eyes, gazing at him sternly while a calm voice inquired why he had tried to lift Logan's wallet. They knew about jail, but…. They didn't know everything about jail. They didn't know about the cop he'd knocked out in the first escape attempt, or what he'd done to that guy who had tried to…. He hadn't meant to do it, hadn't even known until then that he could charge things with his entire body, but the others might not buy that excuse. And they certainly didn't know about Essex, and what Remy had been doing for him over the past two years, things that made stealing look like a minor infraction. Made it look going five miles over the speed limit looked when compared with drive by shootings.

"Huh?" Tabitha blinked. "Speak English. I never made it past Spanish II."

"Dey really dat set against, ah, people wit' a colorful past?"

She snorted. It was a surprisingly tomboyish gesture for some wearing a shirt that interesting. "You obviously haven't had to sit through any of Professor Xavier's 'I'm very disappointed in you' lectures yet."

"Thirty seconds to the bell," Maximoff announced, pinching out his cigarette and picking up his book bag. "I'd see you slowpokes in detention, except I'm not going to be there. If life with the X-Dorks ever gets old," he added, "remember that the Brotherhood can always use new members." Then he was a silver and blue blur, streaking toward the nearest door.

Tabitha and Remy took off after him, sprinting for all they were worth. Remy put on an extra burst of speed and left Tabitha behind him, hitting the doors and making it halfway down the hallway before they started to swing shut. He managed to slide through the door of the Trigonometry classroom and into his seat a split second before the bell went off. Kitty waved at him from across the aisle as he sagged down in his seat in relief, and it was then that Tabitha's comment about "action" with her and Maximoff finally registered. She couldn't possibly have been suggesting some sort of _menage à trois_, could she? It had to have been a joke. Yeah, definitely a joke. He didn't think her warning had been one, though, or Maximoff's hurried but sincere-sounding offer to join the "Brotherhood." He would have to keep that in mind. A good thief always had a back-up plan in case the original plan went sour. Not having one was a good way to end up in jail, as he had learned to his cost.

^_~


	3. Consider Yourself

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DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by Marvel Comics and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

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Posted by: Elspeth (AKA Elspethdixon).

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Author's Notes: This is an X-Men Evolution AU. The show's producers finally saw the light and added Gambit to the series, but I have to confess to being a bit disappointed that they made him an adult. We don't get to see teenage Gambit in all his juvenile delinquent glory. This story is my attempt to correct that. Thank you to Draqonelle, fellow X-Ev fangirl, who helped me come up with ideas.

The excerpt from Jean's torrid romance novel comes from a real book, _Outlander,_ by Diana Gabaldon (I heartily recommend it to all hurt/comfort fans). The lyrics quoted at the beginning of the chapters, as well as the chapter titles and over-all title, are from (and I apologize for not mentioning this before) the musical _Oliver!_, which is based on Charles Dickens' novel _Oliver Twist_. This chapter also contains my first Jean POV, and I apologize in advance if I didn't get her right--I have a harder time getting into her head than I do with the other characters.

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Ships: Hints of Rogue/Gambit, hits of Scott/Jean. Kurt/Amanda and Lance/Kitty also mentioned.

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Part Three: Consider Yourself

__
    
    Consider yourself our mate.
    We don't want to have no fuss
    For after some consideration we can state
    Consider yourself...
    One of us!!

The weekend finally rolled around, and Hank and most of the younger X-Men departed on their West-coast field trip, leaving Jean, Scott, Kurt, Rogue, and Remy with the run of the mansion. For the first evening, it was fun, but as the long, rainy hours of Saturday crawled past, the comparative solitude quickly began to pall.

"Bored, bored. Bored. Bored, bored, bored, so bored. Bored," Kurt chanted, swinging back and forth in time to his words. He was currently hanging upside down from the den's light fixture, his neck craned back so that he could peer over Jean's shoulder at the magazine she was trying to read. "Is He The One?" the title at the top of the page read. So far, Duncan had scored a 15, putting him in the "possible date, but don't stop looking" category. Magazine quizzes were silly anyway.

"Shut up, elf." Rogue threw one of the couch pillows at him, startling him enough that he lost his grip on the ceiling and landed on the couch with a thud.

"_Ach_. Now I'm in pain. Pain, pain. Pain, pain, pain…." 

"Don't make me hurt you," Rogue snarled, brandishing another pillow. "Again."

"Okay, okay, I'll shut up." Kurt folded his arms across his chest and sulked like a blue thundercloud. "Geesh, you are so mean."

Beside Jean on the other couch, Scott turned another page in his own magazine, trying to tune out the sound of the argument and focus on boning up on his surfing knowledge. Since Scott didn't surf, he had to have chosen that particular piece of reading material with Alex in mind. She couldn't help smiling as she watched him. It was just like Scott to study up on his brother's hobbies. Of course, now, he would set himself the task of finding out all of the risks associated with surfing, so that he could worry about them. It was kind of cute, in an overprotective sort of way.

Shuffle. Slap. Shuffle, shuffle. Slap. "I agree wit' Kurt," Remy announced, as he laid out what must have been his tenth straight game of solitaire. "Can't smoke on de roof 'cause it's rainin', can't watch TV 'cause dere's nothin' on, an' dis game gets old real fast. Anyone up for strip poker?"

"In your dreams and my nightmares," Rouge told him flatly. 

"You sure dey nightmares?"

Rogue picked up the pillow she had threatened Kurt with and brandished it at Remy.

"'Kay, I hear you. Didn't really want to see Scott naked anyhow."

Kurt made a disgusted face. "That is so not cool."

"What makes you think I'd lose?" Scott asked indignantly. "Not that I'd play cards with you, the way you cheat." He shook his head, not glancing up from his magazine. "We can't go into town to see a movie," he continued, returning to their boredom dilemma, "because none of us has any money, we can't fight the Brotherhood because they haven't done anything lately to deserve it…. We could always do a danger room workout."

"You sure you wouldn't rather duke it out wit' Alvers?" Remy moved a card from one pile to another, straightening the edges so that they all met exactly. "We all know 'bout your little crush."

"My-" Scott cut himself off mid-outburst. "Look, number one, insulting me like that is offensive to gay people, and number two, it's completely not true!"

"So, you don't enjoy all of dose little fights?"

"Of course not! Come on, you guys, somebody help me here."

Jean smiled wickedly. "Well, you know, Scott. There is a fine line between love and-"

"Finish that sentence, and girl or not, you're going to eat that magazine."

"Methinks de boy doth protest too much," Remy smirked. 

"You!"

"Aw, leave him alone, Jailbait." Rogue tossed the textbook she had been mostly ignoring to one side and stood. "Fun as it is to see you two go at it like monkeys in a zoo, I think I'm gonna cut out and take a bubble bath while no one else is around to come and kick me out." She began heading for the doorway, and Jean rose to follow her. A bath sounded like a very good idea. Hot water, steaming with lavender bath salts, a good book, and no one bickering in the background. Should she take her copy of the _Harvard Medical Journal_, or that historical romance novel about the woman who went back in time to 18th century Scotland? 

With a little wave to Scott, she followed Rogue out the door, then set off down the hallway toward her room, where the passionate adventures of Claire the modern nurse and her gallant highland lover awaited. If Jean couldn't go to California with Hank, she could at least go to the Scottish highlands with Claire.

^_~

Scott watched Jean leave the room, eyes lingering on her slim, graceful form, before turning to glare poisonously at LeBeau. The smarmy creep smirked at him and turned over another playing card.

"You're one to talk," Scott told him. "They should be announcing the wedding between you and Pietro Maximoff any day now."

LeBeau made a face. "Dat hyperactive little snot? Remy can do better den him."

"Yeah, like who? Tabitha?"

"Boom-Boom?" LeBeau shrugged. "She reminds me of my ex-girlfriend. All aggressive an' loud an' blonde. 'Sides, de two of us'd probably blow de bedroom up."

"Be careful around her," Kurt advised from the other couch. "She tried to trick me into stealing stuff with her before she left the X-Men."

"Sounds like she's even more like Belle den I t'ought." LeBeau smiled slightly, face going distant for a second. "De kind of _femm_e dat gets you into trouble, de fun kind an' de not so fun kind." He reached up to swipe a piece of his ridiculously long hair out of his eyes and shifted his attention from his solitaire game to the old, rusty combination lock he'd picked up from somewhere around the mansion, fiddling with the dial. The thing was firmly locked, probably permanently so, without the combination, but he seemed to like fidgeting with stuff. "I'm t'rough wit' blondes for now. I t'ink I'll try my luck wit' brunettes, like Shades here."

"Taryn and I aren't dating anymore," Scott said. He flipped another page in his magazine, turning to an add for Dewy Webber longboards. A young man in an electric blue wetsuit posed on a long red and white surfboard, a giant wave curling over his head. He looked a little like Alex.

"I don't think he's talking about Taryn." Kurt grinned, the tip of his tail switching back and forth like a cat's. "Lance has brown hair. Too bad he's dating Kitty."

Scott suppressed the urge to hurl his surfing magazine at Kurt's pointy-eared head. "All right, that's it. You two stay here and goof off. I'm going to the Danger Room to blow stuff up. And I'm programming all of the robots to look like you!"

"You can do that?" Kurt looked up sharply, interested obviously caught. "Wow. Can you show me how?"

Scott knew he ought to say no, considering Kurt's past record with the Danger Room, and the fact that he had joined in with LeBeau's mockery provided a strong temptation to snap a refusal, but he also knew that both he and Kurt needed the practice. And it would be an opportunity to show off his knowledge of the Danger Room's controls, something he rarely got a chance to do. "If you apologize for hassling me."

"Kurt an' I are sorry we questioned your sexuality," LeBeau said, with less than perfect sincerity. He gave the dial of the combination lock one last spin and pulled it open with a snap. "We humbly beg your pardon an' request dat you show us how to-" he broke off for a second and cast a glance sideways at Kurt, "make robots look like stuff?" LeBeau, Scott remembered, had not seen a real Danger Room simulation yet. Logan and the Professor had been giving him simple training exercises, designed to test his control over his powers. LeBeau had never done a combat sim.

Scott smiled, deciding to temporarily forget his irritation with the other mutant. He had always liked running Danger Room programs, especially when he got to show them to someone new. They weren't really supposed to use the Danger Room for more than simple exercises without an adult's supervision, but since he was only going to show the others some sim designs, not actually run a training program, it would probably be okay. "Apology accepted. Come on, the control booth is this way."

Kurt bounced to his feet and beat Scott to the door, while LeBeau followed at a more leisurely pace. "Dese robots," he asked, as the three of them set off down the hallway, "can you make dem look like hot women?"

"Are you kidding?" Scott answered. "Of course."

^_~

Jean shook more purple bath crystals into the tub and then relaxed back into the hot, lavender-scented water with a contented sigh. Beautiful, beautiful heat seeped into her muscles, turning her skin red and bringing sweat to her forehead. She always ran her baths at a temperature just a few degrees below scalding. The heat felt good. Felt right. For some reason, her tolerance for high temperatures seemed to increase the stronger her control over her powers grew.

Leaning her head against the back of the tub, Jean picked up her novel and began to read. When Rogue had lent her the book, she had told Jean that it was "real romantic" and that the hero was amazingly hot. She had neglected to mention the extremely graphic torture scene. 

Rogue never read anything normal.

_Jaimie's good arm was tight around my shoulders and my wet face was buried in his neck._

"You can't," I whispered. "You can't. I won't let you."

His mouth was warm against my ear. "Claire, I'm to hang in the morning. What happens to me between now and then doesna matter to anyone."

"It matters to me!" The strained lips quivered in what was almost a smile, and he raised his free hand and laid it against my wet cheek.

"I know it does, mo duinne_. And that's why you'll go now. So I'll know there is someone still who minds for me." He drew me close again, kissed me gently and whispered in Gaelic, "He will let you go because he thinks you are helpless. I know you are not." Releasing me, he said in English, "I love you. Go now."_

All right, so it was romantic, in a slightly twisted way. The black and white tiles of the bathroom were replaced in Jean's imagination by the dank, stone walls of Colonel Randall's dungeon, where the imprisoned Jaimie endured the evil English officer's torments and waited for his love to rescue him. In her head, Jaimie had brown hair and a square jaw, and for some reason, her imagination kept trying to give him rose-tinted spectacles.

Strong and stoic yet sensitive, responsible, natural leaders who kept fighting against any odds; they just didn't make them like that in real life. Duncan would never undergo torture for her, she mused. Well, to be fair, very few guys in the real world would submit to torture at the hands of a creepy sadist for the sake of their girlfriends. Fortunately, the real world was rather short on creepy sadists.

_Scott would do it_, a little voice in her head whispered. _Scott would do it for any of his team members, girlfriend or not_. But there were very few guys around who were like Scott. Unfortunately.

If only she could find someone more like him. Duncan was handsome, popular, and clearly crazy about her, but then, he didn't know about her mutation. She suspected, deep inside where that little voice she sometimes tried not to listen to usually spoke, that he might not be quite so crazy about her once he found out. And he insisted on treating her like a barbie doll, or like the hero's girl in some old fifties movie. She had tried hinting that it might be nice if he were to ask for her opinion a bit more often, but the hints just seemed to bounce off.

Scott, on the other hand, always respected her opinion. She could really _talk_ with him, in a way she couldn't with other guys. Of course, this might be because he didn't seem to register the fact that she was a girl, except in a vaguely brotherly sort of way. It was unfortunate, since she herself was beginning to notice that, while Scott might not realize that she was a girl, _he_ was most definitely a boy. And not a bad-looking one, either.

Perhaps she should ask Scott to go with her to the second Sadie Hawkins dance. The repairs to the gym should be finished in a couple of weeks, and afterward, at least, according to Kitty, the student council planned to hold a second dance, to make up for the interrupted one. They wouldn't have to go as _dates_. No, it wouldn't need to be a date. The two of them could simply go as friends. Even if no romance was involved, Scott would certainly be more fun at a dance than Duncan, who had spent most of the last dance talking to his friends as opposed to actually dancing.

But then, asking someone else to the dance would most definitely mean breaking up with Duncan, and she wasn't entirely sure that she wanted to do that. While he'd never come out and told her that he loved her, Jean knew that breaking things off with Duncan would hurt him, and hurting him was the last thing she wanted to do. Still, was it fair to go on dating him when her heart wasn't in it?

^_~

"And this one," Scott continued, "is my favorite." He shut off the simulated image of Laura Croft, and hesitated before punching up the final set of commands. Maybe showing this one off would be going a bit too far, favorite or no. Kurt was going to snicker at him.

"Come on, show us," Kurt urged. He was perched on top of the giant computer console in the Danger Room's control booth, gazing down at the space below where Laura Croft had just been. "Who is it?"

"You guys promise not to tell, right?" Scott asked. When they nodded impatiently--they had already agreed not to reveal existence of the line up of eye candy to either the girls or any of the teachers--he pushed a final button and a painstakingly detailed 3-D hologram of Jean Grey in a bikini appeared in the middle of the Danger Room floor.

LeBeau whistled. "_Très bien, mon ami_. Dat done from life?"

Scott snorted. "I wish. No, wait, forget I said that."

Kurt was deeply impressed. "It looks exactly like Jean. Well, except that I don't think her, her um… Well, I don't think they're that big in real life." He snickered, right on cue. "You have a crush on her, don't you?"

There was really no point in denying it, with the evidence standing right below them in three digital dimensions. Scott looked at the floor. "Yeah, I guess."

He pointedly didn't acknowledge LeBeau's knowing smirk. The newest X-Man was leaning against the wall at the back of the booth, eyeing the hardware with suspiciously intent interest. Scott had made certain that his fingers were blocked from the thief's view when he typed the access codes. There was no knowing whether he could get through security protocols as easily as he could locks, but it was better not to take chances. LeBeau might wear an X-Man's uniform now, albeit a modified one--Scott just _knew_ he'd chosen the shortened sleeves to show off his arm muscles, but why the other boy had chosen to wear a trench coat overtop it was beyond him--but he wasn't truly part of the team yet, and Scott couldn't quite bring himself to trust him.

"Does this one do anything?" Kurt asked. The Laura Croft image did a martial arts routine that was almost, Scott felt, refined enough for a real opponent to fight her. A little more work, and he, or someone else, might actually be able too.

"No." He shook his head. "That would be sort of creepy. I mean, it would be like watching some kind of clone of Jean. This one's for looking at only."

LeBeau's grin got a touch more crooked. "You got one of Rogue in lingerie?"

"Ew, no." Scott made a face. "She's two years younger than me. That would be perverted. Anyway, I'm not going to program lingerie. What would I do, scan in the _Victoria Secret_ catalogue?"

"You can do that?"

"You're sick and depraved, LeBeau."

"'Ey, I'm not de one wit' de girly show computer program," LeBeau snorted. He seemed all set to deliver more obnoxious commentary, but suddenly his expression shifted, and he glanced past Scott to the console and out the windows to the room below. "I t'ink someone's comin'."

Scott followed his gaze to the console and saw the lights indicating that someone was getting ready to open the Danger Room's giant circular door blinking on. Quickly, he moved back to the control panel and started shutting the Bikini Jean program down. Of all of the programs to be caught playing with…

Kurt moved to help, slapping buttons at random with a panicked abandon.

"Kurt, wait." Scott tried to forestall him. "You could turn off something important, like the security protocols--" both the control booth and the Danger Room suddenly went dark, as the overhead lights shut off, most of the lights on the console following suit--"or the lights."

The door swished open to admit Rogue, silhouetted against the light from the hallway, and cycled shut again behind her, leaving the room in darkness once more. "What are y'all doing," she called out, sounding annoyed, "playing flashlight tag? This place is pitch black."

The computer panel beside Scott began to stir to life again, lights blinking on. "Mainframe accessed," a disembodied voice announced. "Security protocols off-line. Password accepted. Initiating program: Perfect Dark."

"Perfect Dark?" Kurt echoed. "What is perfect dark?"

As if in answer to his question, the darkened screen on the control panel suddenly came to life again, terrain imposing itself over the empty grid. Blinking lights representing combat droids began to appear amidst the outlines of walls and piles of rubble.

"Somet'in' bad."

And that was when the first laser beam flared red against the blackness below them. On the screen, the computerized outline of Rogue threw itself sideways, dodging the beam and rolling to its feet again.

This was not supposed to be happening. Obviously, Kurt had hit something important while trying to shut the bikini babes program off, and the result had been to set the Danger Room up for _this_. Whatever _this_ was. It was not a combat sim Scott had ever encountered before, and it looked dangerous as hell.

"How you shut dis t'ing off?" LeBeau demanded, sounding on the verge of panic as the vid-screen Rogue dodged another laser sniper. Below them, the real Rogue was hidden in the darkness somewhere, the sound of her harsh breathing filtering through the intercom.

"Guys? Guys! " she shouted. "What are you doing? Make it stop!"

Another laser shot followed on the heels of her words, stabbing toward her with more accuracy than the previous ones. She ducked away, stumbling into the remains of a half-way destroyed wall, and let out a piercing shriek. On the screen, the thin line that designated the laser beam brushed so close to the Image Rogue's shoulder that it was impossible to tell whether it had made contact, or simply missed by millimeters.

"We have to get down there," Scott told the other two boys. "We have to get her out. Kurt?" He glanced toward the smaller boy.

"Can't you just turn it off?" Kurt asked. He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the computer console.

"No!" Scott snapped. "I don't know how. I've never seen this program before!" The outline of Rogue on the little screen was crouched behind the broken wall, no longer moving. Behind her, two floating droids hovered, ready to fire.

Two pairs of glowing eyes stared into his, wide and shocked. 

"If Scott and I run interference, can you get Rogue out?" LeBeau asked Kurt. His voice was low, tight with strain. He was obviously forcing himself not to shout. "Can you find her down dere?"

"_Ja_, I can. I see better in the dark than in the light."

It wasn't a bad plan, as spur of the moment plans went. It might even work. Scott stepped forward and reached one hand out to catch hold of Kurt's shoulder. "Take us down there, Nightcrawler," he ordered, using his mission voice. _Think of it as a mission, Kurt,_ he urged silently. _Just another mission. The two of us can handle it._ LeBeau was the unknown quantity, new and untested. Did he even know how to fight, or only how to pick locks and vault fences? "I'll try to keep those robot things off you. Remy-"

"One of dose t'ings goes after you, Kurt, or Rogue, I kill it," LeBeau said flatly. "Boom. No more robot." His eyes burned like two coals, the only part of him that was clearly visible in the faint light from the console. "Dey can't hide from me." A fan of playing cards seemed to materialize from nowhere in his left hand, pale in the darkness. And then Kurt teleported them, and the world winked out to be replaced by complete blackness.

When they reappeared down on the Danger Room floor, the blackness remained, pressing against Cyclops's eyes like a living thing. Somewhere near bye, he could hear the faint hum of one of the robots, and he turned his head automatically, trying to pinpoint it.

"Behind you!" two voices shouted at once, and Cyclops threw himself flat as a ruby-colored laser beam streaked through the space his chest had just been occupying. He hit the ground hard enough that the breath was knocked out of him, and for a moment he could only lie there, watching as a small, flat missile wreathed in pink fire soared through the darkness, faintly illuminating the space around it. When it hit the robot, the resulting explosion lit up the room like a lightning flash in a thunderstorm.

Nightcrawler was already bounding away through the rubble, a small lithe form that blended so well into the darkness that it was only his movement that made him visible at all. Beside Cyclops, LeBeau was crouched ready to spring, more glowing cards ready in his hands.

"_Ça va_?"

"Fine," Scott gasped. He climbed to his feet and took off after Nightcrawler, cursing inwardly as he stumbled over holes, ruts, and fallen bricks that the faint light provided by the burning robot failed to illuminate. LeBeau was right behind him, footsteps uncannily silent. He did not stumble. Like Nightcrawler, he moved like someone who could see.

As the two of them drew nearer to Nightcrawler, who was climbing a pile of rubble with the nimbleness of a spider monkey, a quartet of robot droids zoned in on them, as if angered by the destruction of their fellow.

All four droids seemed to come from different angles, two low, swooping in from either side in a pincher movement, and two diving down from on high like hawks. Cyclops pulled his glasses down and unleashed a burst of energy at the nearest, spinning at the same time to avoid the laser bolts fired by its companion. He found himself wishing desperately for his visor, and the added control it provided, even as the droid seemed to disintegrate before the force of his raw blast.

The air around himself and LeBeau was a web of energy, both from the lasers and from Cyclops's own blasts, which the remaining three robots managed to dodge with infuriating ease. LeBeau's explosive cards proved just as useless, the droids dipping or moving to the side just in time to avoid them. It was as if they had learned from their comrades' demises. They probably had. 

The room was no longer solidly black, but half lit by explosions and flame, marking sites where the X-Men's attacks had failed. For a moment, Nightcrawler's silhouette stood out dimly at the top of the mound of rubble at their backs, a darker shape against the darkness, and then he was gone, vanishing down the other side in search of Rogue.

Cyclops felt a flare of heat against his left shoulder as a laser beam came within a bare inch of striking him. _Hurry up, Kurt_, he pleaded inwardly. Another robot had joined the battle, bringing the total back up to four. Beside him, LeBeau somersaulted out of the way of another laser, flicking two cards toward the new arrival. It swerved to dodge them, moving toward Cyclops, and he nailed it with an optic blast. Both cards continued going, one landing with a small explosion several feet away, the other taking out part of the wall above the two X-Men and sending a shower of debris down on them.

"Watch it," Cyclops snapped. He tried to dodge brick pieces as well as laser beams and didn't entirely succeed. A small shower of dust and chips of concrete rained down on him, one piece hitting his upraised arm hard enough that the muscle went numb.

He wasn't the only casualty. A series of dull, metallic clangs were clearly audible over the noise of the falling rubble as one of the robots, hovering too close to the wall, was half-buried by the mini-landslide of brick. Seeing it, LeBeau's apparent carelessness began to make sense. 

Cyclops fired off another optic blast, incinerating this robot as easily as he had the first two. LeBeau was setting them up for him. Not bad. Maybe, just maybe, they were going to get away with this.

And then he heard Nightcrawler's startled yelp from beyond the mound of rubble.

Before the echoes from the sound could die, LeBeau had moved, flinging his entire handful of cards at the last two robots and turning to scramble over the rubble heap with almost as much agility as Nightcrawler. Cyclops did not wait around for the glowing missiles to hit. Feet slipping on the debris, he followed LeBeau up the mound, arm throbbing painfully where the brick had struck it.

The two of them slid down the other side in a shower of loose rocks, LeBeau managing to convert an obvious slip into a controlled roll partway through. They had barely reached solid ground when Nightcrawler and Rogue came pelting around a corner toward them, chased by two more robots. Obviously, Cyclops and LeBeau had not been able to distract them all.

Optic blasts and thrown playing cards kept the two droids busy until Nightcrawler and Rogue could cross the distance that separated them from the other two X-Men. Rogue, running full out, skidded straight into LeBeau, nearly knocking him off balance, as Nightcrawler slid to a stop before Cyclops. 

"Fearless leader," Nightcrawler panted out, "behind you!" He pointed over Cyclops's shoulder, and Cyclops looked back to see the other two droids flying toward them all, reluctant to give up the battle.

"Nightcrawler," he ordered, "get us out of here."

Nightcrawler grabbed Cyclops's arm with one hand and wrapped his tail around LeBeau's wrist, then teleported all of them back up to the control booth. Less then a second after they disappeared, four laser beams criss-crossed the space where they had been.

^_~

Remy held Rogue tight against him as the bottom dropped out of the universe, his heart beating so fast and hard that it felt as if it were pounding through both their bodies. The world lurched, the floor beneath his feet returned, and wisps of sulfurous smoke drifted around them, stinging his eyes. He closed them, and held on harder. They could have died. _Dieu_, all of them could have died. There was a burned patch on the shoulder of Rogue's uniform, where one of the laser beams had come within a hair's breadth of hitting her. Those robot things played for keeps. Suddenly, a very, very vivid image of two of those laser beams coming within inches of his face flashed in his mind. _He_ could have died.

"Let's not do that again," Kurt's voice suggested. "Ever." Something warm and furry uncoiled from around Remy's left wrist. Kurt's tail. 

"You can let go a' me now, Swamp Rat." Rogue began to squirm and twist, pushing at his chest in an attempt to break his hold on her.

Remy opened his arms and let her go, summoning up his most charming smile, though she wouldn't be able to see it in the darkness of the control room. "Can't blame a man for tryin', _chere_." The endearment just slipped out, born of concern and fading fear. She had been shaking, moments ago. But, if Rogue wanted to pretend that she hadn't been scared, he'd uphold his side of the façade. "After de way you t'rew youself into my arms, I naturally t'ought dat…"

"Oh, shut up. And," she turned to look at Scott and Kurt, "thank you. Y'all saved me."

Kurt looked at the floor. "I'm sorry. I think it was my fault that the Danger Room went nuts. I didn't mean to press… ah, whatever button I pressed."

"It's not your fault, Kurt," Scott told him. It was hard to tell, in the blueish-green light of the console, but Remy thought he looked slightly pale. "It's my fault. I shouldn't have let us mess around with things down here in the first place."

"What the hell were y'all doing down here?" Rogue demanded. She folded her arms and glared at the three of them, green eyes narrowed.

"Not'in,'" Remy said hurriedly. The extra sim program was Scott's secret to protect, not his to give away. 

"Yeah right," she snarled, but she let the topic drop. The four of them simply stood there for a moment, all of them looking through the windows of the control booth down at the darkness below. It was difficult to tell through the glass, but Remy was pretty sure something was still moving down there. The fires he and Scott had started burned fitfully, providing just enough light to illuminate most of the rubble and reveal that the robots had apparently gone into hiding, but he could still sense something moving. Maybe there was something down there that was even nastier than the little flying robots, something they had only just managed to avoid meeting. He thought about asking Kurt, whose eyes were even better than his in the dark, if _he_ could see anything, but decided that he really didn't want to know.

"So," Scott managed after a few moments, "we should probably go and tell the Professor that the Danger Room is online and we can't turn it off."

Kurt seemed to wilt slightly. "Do we have to mention that it tried to kill us?"

"Yes," Scott said more firmly. "Yes, we do. God only knows what this program is."

"God might not know, but I bet Logan does," Rogue muttered. 

Remy nodded. "Dis got his claw marks all over it." There _was_ something moving down there. He was sure of it. He looked away from the darkness below and back to Rogue before he could catch more than an impression of heat and motion. A little voice in the back of his head that he didn't want to listen to whispered that it seemed about the right size to be a simulation of Sabertooth. The real Victor Creed could rip prison guards' throats out with his teeth. Just how accurate were these sims? He pointedly did not look at the little computer screen with the room's specs on it.

"Let's leave," he suggested. 

Kurt was at the door in two bounds. Apparently, he shared Remy's desire to put some more distance between themselves and the things in the Danger Room. Rogue and Scott followed more slowly, Scott taking a long look at the little computer screen first. Maybe he was hoping to find some clue as to how to deactivate the program. If so, he was disappointed, for he straightened up after a moment and turned away from the console. As the four X-Men left the darkened room for the brighter light of the hallway, he caught up to Remy, walking beside him.

"How come you never told anyone that you could see in the dark?" he asked, sounding slightly accusing.

Remy shrugged. "Nobody asked." The truth was, he had felt more comfortable keeping part of his powers secret, an ace in the hole, as it were. Only amateurs displayed all of their cards on the first hand. He should have known that Scott would figure it out after seeing him move in the Danger Room. The other mutant still didn't know everything about him, though, he thought with a slight smile. Remy still had a few tricks tucked up his sleeve. 

"I knew," Kurt volunteered. "He never complains when I keep the lights in the room low," he elaborated "and he keeps wearing those sunglasses even though he doesn't need to use them to hide anymore." He looked slightly surprised that no one else had managed to figure it out.

Remy shrugged again. "Like I said, nobody asked. 'Ey, eyes dis ugly got to be good for somet'in'."

Rogue glanced back over her shoulder at him for a moment, eyes appraising. "They're not that bad, Jailbait. Actually, I think they're kinda neat-looking." She turned her attention forward again and kept going.

"_Vraiment_?" Remy stared after her, startled. Nobody ever thought his eyes were "neat-looking." The best opinion he could usually hope for was "intimidating," or "unusual,"--neither of which were all that great, but both of which beat "freakish." She thought his eyes were neat. His smile widened. "You want a closer look, _chere_?"

She made a show of ignoring him.

Halfway to the Professor's office, Jean stepped out into the hallway to join them. 

"Scott," she began, "there's something I want to…" she trailed off. "What happened to you guys?" She looked from Rogue's scorched uniform to Scott's much abused street clothes, taking in the obvious battle damage. 

"The Danger Room went crazy and tried to kill us," Kurt announced.

"What were you _doing_?"

"That's what I asked," Rogue told her. "Swamp Rat here wouldn't tell me." She sorted. "I think I deserve to know if anyone does."

"I told you," Remy protested. "We weren't doin' not'in'. An' don't call me swamp rat, River Rat."

"That's a double negative, _Swamp Rat_. That means you _were_ doing something."

Remy repressed the urge to stick his tongue out at Rogue and settled for smirking mysteriously at her instead. At least, he hoped it looked mysterious. Mystery, after all, was sexy, though Rogue, he realized, might not have figured that out, given the lengths she went to in order to surround herself with secrecy. If her make-up was anything to go by, sexy was the last effect she was aiming at. More like "undead." 

On the other hand, the dark eyeliner was actually sort of intriguing. Not as intriguing as that see-through green top, but then, few things were. And she thought his eyes were neat-looking.

He could live with the nickname "Swamp Rat." After all, it was a step up from "Jailbait."

^_~

Logan heard the approaching group of students long before they reached the door to the Professor's study. Moments later, he caught the scent of singed cloth, sulfur, and an underlying hint of fresh blood. Either the mansion had somehow been attacked without Professor X or himself becoming aware of it, or they kids were fresh from the Danger Room. He was betting on the Danger Room.

The sound of the footsteps slowed considerably as the little group approached the study, and they hesitated a full half minute outside the door. The Professor and Logan locked eyes over the top of the desk. 

"Better get your check book ready, Chuck," Logan advised. "I smell serious property damage." He settled back in his chair to watch the show, eyes fixed on the door.

Slowly, the door creaked open, and the mansion's remaining cast of X-Men shuffled in, Scott in the lead. Rogue was the only one in uniform, but all of them except Jean looked like the losing side of a small war, and all of them except Jean looked guilty.

Well, LeBeau didn't look guilty, but then, he never seemed to. When Logan had caught him shinnying down a drainpipe from the roof the other day, surrounded by the scent of cigarette smoke, in flagrant defiance of the mansion's anti-smoking rules, he had merely shrugged, grinned, and held out his empty, cigarette-less hands. Logan had been deeply tempted to loosen all of the rivets holding the drainpipe to the wall, to teach the kid a lesson the next time he tried to do a little B&E style climbing, but had decided that the Professor probably would not have approved.

He certainly looked disapproving now, though he knew about neither LeBeau's unauthorized cigarette nor Logan's thoughts regarding the drainpipe.

"Are you all right?" he asked the assembled students.

There was a lot of shuffling of feet and staring at the floor.

"Mostly, sir," Scott said, stepping slightly in front of the others, "but, um, we… We… The Danger Room is stuck on something really high level and we can't figure out how to turn it off," he finally blurted. "It's my fault," he added quickly, before anyone else could speak up.

"No, it's my fault," Kurt insisted. "I pushed the wrong button."

"It's not _my_ fault." This from Rogue, who, in spite of her words, was standing just behind Scott's left shoulder in a visible declaration of support.

The Professor looked at them all silently for a moment, and Logan didn't even need to watch to sense the kids squirming. "I see," he said finally. "Would you mind explaining exactly what you were doing in the Danger Room, and which program it is that you are unable to turn off?"

"Let me," LeBeau hissed at Scott in a barely audible whisper. Barely audible, that is, to anyone but Logan. "You suck at damage control, Scotty. Scott was showin' me how de skins for de combat droids worked, sir," he continued in a louder voice. "So I could see what I'd be up 'gainst when I started doin' real workouts. We didn't mean to run any programs. Was an accident, I swear."

"Remy saw Rogue coming and we tried to shut the skins down so she wouldn't walk in on them." Kurt jumped in on the heels of LeBeau's words, just a little too quickly. "I tried to help Scott shut it off and hit something, and all of the lights went out."

"An' den Roguey walks in an' says somet'in' and dis urban combat program starts playin', wit' dese little robot bastards wit' laser canons flyin' everywhere."

"So we went in and got her out, but Scott couldn't get the program to turn off."

"So de killer robots are still in dere."

The Professor blinked once at the sudden flood of information, staring at the two self-appointed spokesmen in surprise. Logan put his head in his hands and groaned, a sinking feeling seeping through his gut. LeBeau's "killer robots" sounded suspiciously familiar. If it was what he thought it was, the kids were damn lucky to have gotten out of it relatively unscathed. 

The sound drew the students' attention to him for the first time, and all eyes turned to the corner where he sat.

"Sorry, Chuck," Logan apologized. "I think I know what they got into. Sounds like one of my workout programs." He turned to the kids, eyeing them again for damage, though there was little chance of his nose failing to catch something serious the first time around. "Were there lights, or was everything dark?"

"Blacker than Mystique's heart," Rogue supplied. She made a face. "I couldn't see a thing until Scott and the Cajun here started setting things on fire."

"_On_ _fire_?" The Professor's eyebrows went up. "I think we had better go down to the control booth and take a look at the damage."

When the seven of them crowded into the little booth to peer down through the windows at the destruction below, Logan let out an involuntary whistle. As the Professor began tapping keys and pressing buttons, the lights in the Danger Room came back on, and the partially destroyed walls and piles of rubble below--they were modeled on some of the bombed out cities Logan had seen during the Second World War, actually--dissolved back into the floor. Jean, staring at the little heaps of slagged metal that marked the graves of combat droids, gasped faintly.

"You guys destroyed the place."

"Naw," Logan assured her, "they only took out a couple of droids." More than a couple, actually. A damned impressive number of droids, considering that none of the kids had his heightened smell and hearing to help them track the things in the dark. "Those things are easy to replace. Forge'll make us more for free, just for the fun of it." He leaned over the Professor's shoulder to inspect the computer log currently scrolling across one of the screens, Jean joining him to get her own peek at it. 

"They ran the program with the safety protocols _off_?" she demanded, at the same moment that the Professor stopped paging down and turned his attention from the screen to give Logan a stern look.

"The Perfect Dark sequence won't run unless you take the safety protocols offline first," Logan explained. "Nobody other than me was ever supposed to tangle with it, and I don't need 'em."

"You guys could have been killed!" Jean continued.

"You don't have to tell us that," Kurt muttered darkly.

"Perhaps you could explain how the safety protocols came to be turned off?" the Professor ventured, turning his attention to the kids after shooting Logan a look that promised a long talk later, when the students weren't around. _I thought I had said that _no one_ was to remove the Danger Rooms safety features after Kurt's mishap this fall_, he added, cementing the promise. 

Logan had to stop himself from giving his head a violent shake, to dislodge the mental voice. He knew the Professor couldn't dress down another teacher with the kids present, but he hated being contacted telepathically. _Sorry, Chuck_, he thought as hard as he could, knowing that the Professor would pick it up, _I really never thought that any of the students would get into it._

"Um, were not sure, sir," Scott said, answering the Professor's verbal question. "One of us must have done it by mistake, while we were trying to shut the combat skins program down."

Kurt stepped forward slightly and drew breath as if to speak, but LeBeau beat him to the punch.

"I t'ink dat was me," he said quickly, speaking over Kurt's attempt to answer. "Scott told me not to mess wit' de computers, but I wanted to help." He lowered his eyes to stare at the pack of cards he was shuffling from hand to hand. It looked like only part of a deck, which made Logan wonder where the rest had gone. Into those droids? "Guess I shouldn't've touched an unfamiliar computer. _Desolé, mes amis_." He gave Kurt a sharp nudge with his elbow, preventing any attempt at protest.

"Well, Remy," the Professor responded, "I assume you have learned your lesson." He wasn't fooled any more than Logan was. He looked straight at Scott and Kurt when he spoke. Once the two of them had gotten the message, he turned back to LeBeau. "On the other hand, now that you have been exposed to a sample of what the X-Men occasionally face, you may have second thoughts about joining us. I won't lie to you; it can at times be very dangerous, though our training facilities are not supposed to be part of that danger. I would understand perfectly if you changed your mind. Rest assured, if you did decide to leave, you would _not_ have to return to your former lifestyle."

LeBeau appeared to think about this for a moment, glancing from the other students, to the Danger Room below, where demolished combat droids still smoldered slightly. Everyone was silent for a moment, awaiting his answer. Logan fully expected it to be "no." The kid was a con artist in the making if he'd ever seen one, and Logan hadn't missed the way his eyes lingered over valuable objects, the way he absent-mindedly pocketed any small object the mansions other residents left lying around--though he did generally return them once he noticed that he had done it. He might have good reflexes and a fair amount of control over his powers, but he didn't seem like the type to be a team player; someone so obviously used to relying only on himself generally put his own well being ahead of any other considerations. Logan wasn't exactly a team player himself, and could recognize the potential for trouble when he saw it in another.

"Rouge t'inks my eyes are neat-lookin'," LeBeau finally announced, smiling slightly. "So I t'ink mebbe I'll stay, if dat's okay wit' you."

Logan was very, very glad that he could not remember being seventeen.

"A commendable decision, Remy," the Professor said, then continued, addressing all of them, "I believe that once the other students return, we will have to have a meeting to discuss the proper use of the Danger Room." He looked directly at Scott when he said this, which made Logan wonder if he'd missed something. Scott Summers was probably the most responsible and hard working of all the students, though Jean gave him some stiff competition.

"About de Danger Room," LeBeau began, pointedly not looking at Rogue, who was blushing slightly, "could I start doin' some of dose combat sims wit' de others? Now dat I've sort of been initiated?" He grinned, eyes gleaming for a moment with a roguish light. "Might be fun. As long as I don't have to play wit' de same robots."

"I think that would be a good idea, Professor," Scott chimed in. "LeBeau--Remy has already had some basic combat training, I think, as well as some gymnastics or martial arts. I think we should pair him with Kurt for training. He can see in the dark too, and he's good at stealth stuff."

LeBeau looked slightly startled, and gave Scott an appraising glance. Logan would make book that he hadn't volunteered any of that information.

"I'll think about it," Logan replied, answering before the Professor could. The more aggressive combat training, after all, was his responsibility. The Professor worked with the kids' powers and did the guidance counselor thing, but he generally left the hand-to-hand-type stuff to the mansion's acknowledged expert. "You guys did good in there." He nodded toward the viewing windows and the Danger Room below. "It's really designed for a solitary fighter, but it's way above the level you've been training on."

The kids straightened their shoulders slightly at the praise, heads coming up.

"In fact, since you're all so good, I think I might need to work with you a bit more often. Save you from getting so bored on the weekends."

This did not get quite as enthusiastic a response, though no one actually voiced complaint.

The Professor picked up where Logan had left off. "I think that's an excellent idea. For now, though, I think you all had better return to your rooms and change. You look rather the worse for wear. Scott, I 'd like you to stay here for a moment."

The other students filed out, not quite stampeding the door in their haste to get away before some form of disciplinary action was threatened. Scott hung back, looking slightly nervous.

"Yes, Professor?" Scott asked.

"Scott, I know I've already asked you to do a lot this past week," the Professor said, "but afraid I'm not finished yet. I'm going to ask if you would be willing to introduce Remy to Coach Gardener on Monday. I think participating in an after school sport, like track, might keep him too busy to get into trouble after school."

Scott frowned slightly, not looking thrilled at the prospect. "If you want me to, Professor," he agreed. "He might not want to go out for a sport, though. I know he smokes." He looked horrified at himself as soon as he had spoken. "Forget I said that," he added quickly. "I'm sure he's going to quit. I'll talk to him about it."

"Please do," the Professor nodded, not quite a dismissal. "And Scott, after you leave here, please go see Dr. McCoy about that bruise on your arm."

As Scott was heading toward the door, he added, "And I thought you might like to know, I'm erasing your sims program."

Scott started, ears visibly reddening. "Professor-"

"You're not in trouble, and I'm not going to tell Ororo about it, but I will ask that you not make a replacement program. If you wish, you may work with me to design some more useful and, ah, appropriate sim programs. Your code was not bad, and I know that Kitty would appreciate having a companion in her lessons."

Scott looked torn between embarrassment and gratitude. "Thank you, Professor. I think I'll just, just go and see Dr. McCoy now." He all but fled the control room.

Logan turned to look at the Professor, eyebrows raised. "What was the program?"

The other man showed him, keying in a command sequence and calling up a string of specifications on one of the smaller screens.

"You're right," he agreed, as the Professor started the delete sequence. "I don't think 'Ro needs to know about this." He paused for a moment, eyeing the specs on the screen. "But can we keep the one of Marilyn Monroe?"

^_~

Not much closure, I know, but there is going to be a sequel, which is currently being co-written by me and Draqonelle.

Thank you to all of my reviewers.

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Shiver: Thank you! Yes, Remy does seem more like the Brotherhood type than the X-Men type (probably why the X-Ev series has him working for Magneto). That's going to come up at some point during one of the sequels. If he acts a bit like the Remy from the old cartoon, it's probably because I used to love the old X-men series when I was a kid. I can still hum the old theme song.

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Demeter: Thank you! Sorry you were disappointed by my version of Gambit (unless you meant the real X-Ev version, in which case I agree, a bit). I'm glad you're pleased with the Rogue/Gambit-ness, though. It's always nice to hear from a fellow shipper ^_~. (When she flirted with Bobby in the movie, I swear it caused me physical pain).

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kaosda: Thank you! I'm glad you liked the first two chapters. I hope you liked this one as well.

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Draq: Yeah, the "distracted from his studies" line was a classic--thanks for contributing it. And yes, the broken figurine at Hot Topic is based on the time I broke that little ninja figurine there. There are more flashback forthcoming in the later stuff (you've seen one of them already) and now that I've gotten the most urgent dirt track articles written and out of the way, I'll turn my attention to my half of the sequel.


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